


Fiat Nox

by NyxNuit



Series: Luceat Lux Vestra [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Background Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov - Freeform, Established Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Graphic Description of Corpses, I also watch too much SVU, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Yuri is bad at adulting, Yuri is now tol and angry, Yuri swears a lot, demon hunter AU, featuring more of my terrible attempts at humor, more gratuitous music references, slow burn-ish because Yuri is stubborn af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2020-10-25 06:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 115,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxNuit/pseuds/NyxNuit
Summary: Otabek pauses, “So…you’re a wizard?"“Call me a wizard again and I’ll turn you into a rat.”Yuri gets a lot more than he bargained for when he and his Unit investigate a series of strange murders.When Otabek is the unwitting mundane victim of a magical crime, he does his best to get on with his life. Instead, he gets saddled with a foul-mouthed, junk-food-eating Warlock.





	1. I Came, I Saw, I Left

**Author's Note:**

> Now...I know what you're thinking: this isn't quite what you expected as a follow-up. I hope you enjoy it all the same.

_June 2024; London_

He starts awake with a loud snort, prying open crusty eyes and immediately squinting them shut with a hiss against a beam of sunlight leaking through what he previously thought were airtight blinds. Smacking his lips, he looks down at the Demonology book he’d been reading and observes the giant tear where a page used to be.

Said page is currently stuck to his cheek.

“Ah fuck,” he swore, and carefully pried it from his face. The buzzer goes off and Yuri lets out an annoyed growl when the person on the other end lets their finger sit on the button. He gets up from the table and stomps over to the front door.

“Fuck. Off,” he growled into the intercom.

“Long night?” the slightly amused voice of his partner answers. He took his finger off the button to groan and scrub a hand over his face, wrinkling his nose when he felt the prickle of stubble on his palm.

“You better have fucking coffee.” He buzzes him up and scrubs a hand through his hair, wincing when his fingers get caught in a nasty tangle.

When he opens the door, Yuri is disappointed to see that Ambrose does not have coffee and his partner is giving him an obviously judgmental once-over (it might be concern, it might not. To Yuri, it really doesn’t matter).

“Fuck you,” Yuri growled in Russian.

“You’re not my type,” Ambrose replied automatically, “I’ll give you thirty seconds to change your clothes only because I can tell you’ll contaminate the crime scene if I let you go like that.”

He grumbled a blue streak under his breath, letting Ambrose step inside before shoving the door closed with an audible bang, “What happened to ‘mandatory leave’?”

“That just means we’re the only ones who aren’t busy,” Ambrose replied.

“Fucking figures,” Yuri grumbled, stalking off to his bedroom, stripping off his shirt on the way.

“Jesus,” he heard Ambrose swear behind him, “What the bloody hell is this?” 

Yuri didn’t bother to answer, using his shirt to scrub the crust out of his eyes and throwing it in the general direction of his hamper before grabbing some clothes – the last clean ones – from his basket on the floor near his bed and tugging them on.

He can hear Ambrose banging around the main living area (probably tidying up). And, exactly as he'd predicted, when Yuri emerges from his bedroom his partner has a large bin liner in one hand and collecting rubbish with the other.

“I thought we had somewhere to be,” Yuri said, messily gathering his hair into a knot and securing it with an elastic.

“We do,” Ambrose said and carefully puts the bag next to the table, “It’s a miracle you haven’t gotten slapped with a civil cleaning order. Seriously, Yuri, this is vile. And when’s the last time you combed your hair?” 

“We can’t all afford a cleaning lady,” Yuri said, pointedly ignoring the part about his hair, grabbing his department jacket, and wrenching the door open, “You can brief me on the way.”

“We’re making this place livable when we come back,” Ambrose told him, giving him a stern look on the way out.

“Treat me to a coffee for waking me and I’ll consider it,” Yuri said. 

They do stop by a Costa on the way to a remote spot out by the docks and Yuri wishes the smell of his mocha was strong enough to cover the stench of the mud on the shores of the Thames. Yuri ducks underneath the tape marking off the crime scene, hardly sparing a glance for the analysts in their eerie hazmat suits carrying cases full of gear and possible physical evidence back to their nondescript Agency vehicle where there’s undoubtedly a Transportation Circle set up inside. He easily spots the medical examiner in her department jacket and wellies, crouched over a too-still figure lying half-way in the mud and fighting with the zipper on a body bag.

“Morning, sunshine,” Sara says, straightening and flipping back her bangs. Her Agency jacket is marked with the emblem of the Analyst Department and a solid blue armband to indicate that she’s part of the coroner’s office. “Where’s your better half?”

“Parking the car,” Yuri gestures vaguely behind him, “What’s this?”

“Well, _this_ is a mundane girl,” Sara said, “or it used to be.”

It’s certainly not the first time that humans have turned up dead on the shores of the Thames – there are plenty of vampires that gorge themselves by completely draining their victims and then carelessly dump the empty carcasses. But there are no visible bite marks on this one, or any obvious signs of brutality. The throat and jugular are entirely intact, and this is looking – at first glance – like a run of the mill body dump. Yuri’s willing to bet money their department is only investigating this because a disgruntled troll called it in.

“First impressions?” Ambrose asked, coming up to stand on Yuri’s left.

“Just that she was human,” Sara shrugged a shoulder, “and was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cause of death isn’t easily determined with just a no-touch physical, so I’ll have to get her back to the lab and do a full autopsy.”

Yuri tilts his head, squinting at the oddly shaped scar on her cheek. It’s discolored – probably from age – but it looks vaguely familiar. “What’s this?” he points to the scar, taking care not to touch the body and contaminate what is now considered evidence in an ongoing investigation.

“Hm? Some sort of scar,” Sara said, pausing in the middle of zipping up the bag, “she has them all over. See?” Sara picks up an arm with one of her gloved hands, pointing to marks that haven’t been totally obscured by the mud, “I assumed she was one of those body modification enthusiasts or something.”

No. That’s not quite it. He’s seen it before, he’s sure of it.

And it’s gonna fucking _bug_ him until his brain stops being stingy.

The dead girl is securely stored in a bag and carted off by some of Sara’s minions, leaving Yuri to stew in his frustration for a solid minute. There’s not much to scope out at the crime scene – there are no footprints, and he’s willing to bet his next paycheck that they won’t find much on the CCTV. So much for protecting the UK’s imported goods.

“Whoever they are,” Ambrose said, “is quite smart. Getting a scent around here is fucking impossible.”

Yuri absently scratches at his stubble and silently hopes that this case is not turning out to be the huge pain in the ass that he anticipates. Those scars are going to bug him until the autopsy report is released and he can get a better look.

“Let’s go,” Yuri grumbled, “I can’t believe I got woken up for this.”

“Chief’s orders,” Ambrose shrugged, falling into step beside him as they carefully make their way back to the car.

“Of course,” Yuri snapped, “because that fucking idiot wouldn’t know how to allocate resources to save his life.” Seriously, what was the point of calling him off his mandatory three days of leave to go stare at a fucking body dump? Without a report from Sara ruling the mundane’s death a homicide and true speculation of supernatural involvement (beyond a grouchy bridge troll calling it in) they can’t even open an official investigation.

“Maybe you should become chief then,” Ambrose said, “Since you have so many bright ideas.”

“_Fuck_ that,” Yuri replied automatically, “And have to deal with every half-brained sod in this fucking Sub-quarter? I don’t fucking think so.”

“Oh, _half_-brained now? Aren’t we feeling generous today?” Ambrose laughed.

They’ve had this conversation several times throughout their three years of partnership. In all honesty, Yuri didn’t mind the people in his Unit (you could even say that he had a sort of fondness for them, but you’d never get him to actually admit it), or even one or two people in OSC. But he could say with certainty that the current Chief of the London Sub-quarter was a fucktard of epic proportions – and he doesn’t say that lightly.

“Fuck off,” Yuri said, “You know I’m right.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Ambrose shrugged, and tossed his empty cup in a bin before digging around in his pockets for his keys.

“Whatever. Let’s get some fucking food.”

They find a café that serves decent pastry (and _no_ fucking baked beans) and take a seat in the back corner, out of the way from the other patrons. Ambrose picks up a menu and starts looking at it in complete silence. Yuri watches him for a good thirty seconds before scoffing in disgust.

“For gods sake, just _ask_ already.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Ambrose replied evenly.

“You thought it,” Yuri accused, “and it’s annoying.”

“It’s your business what you do in your free time, Yuri,” Ambrose sighed, picking up the pot the waitress sets down in the middle of the table and pours himself a cup of tea, “Hades knows I certainly can’t judge you. Especially for reading old books. If you want to share, that’s fine. If you don’t, that’s fine too. Though, I do hope you know that the Archive does charge for damage to their resources now.”

Yuri ran his tongue over his teeth, tearing open two sugar packets and stirring them into his coffee, “I’ll be paying a lot more than money if I return the book the way it is now,” he mutters, since it’s actually Jade’s and not an official asset of the Agency, and she’s more protective of her books than a mama bear of her cubs. “You think Danny knows any repair spells?”

“She might,” Ambrose said, “she’ll want to know what the book is for though. And then she’ll cry if she thinks you’re testing for HUNTER.”

_Oh gods_, Yuri thinks, anything_ but that_. His horrible brain immediately thinks of the last time he saw her cry and it’s hard not to do a full-body cringe at just how horribly it went (in his defense, it wasn’t his idea to be on comfort duty).

He hasn’t thought about taking the APA for a long time. At this point in his career, he would have to be recommended for it, given all the demerits and notes in his file that say he has a “problem with authority” (the Chief’s words, not his). Yuri will outright argue before the European Board of Directors that his issue isn’t with authority, it’s with _idiots_. Ambrose knows all of this and that’s exactly why Yuri reaches over and pelts him with sugar packets as punishment for being a cheeky git. Ambrose catches one or two out of the air (and deflects the others with the menu. Damn his excellent reflexes) to add to his tea.

“You ass,” Yuri said, “She knows I wouldn’t leave without warning. Besides, I’m kind of stuck with you all now.”

“I’m afraid divorce isn’t an option,” Ambrose agreed.

The drive back to his apartment after breakfast is spent wracking his brain for everything he’s studied on runic languages (which is, heh, not that much).

“Penny for your thoughts?” Ambrose asked.

“I only take cash,” Yuri said, then held out his hand, “Five pounds minimum.” Ambrose snorted and ignored it, getting out of the car.

“First things first,” Ambrose says when they get back into Yuri’s apartment, “rubbish into the bin.”

In Yuri’s opinion, his partner is enjoying making him clean _way_ too much. He somehow manages to find cleaning products and actually makes Yuri tackle the worst of the mess (“I’m your field partner, not your maid, and I’m most certainly not cleaning up whatever the hell _this_ is.”) while he takes the easier jobs (e.g. dusting, vacuuming, and making Yuri’s bed. Yuri _never_ makes his bed).

“You’re a fucking sadist,” Yuri grumbles, violently plunging his sponge into the bucket of soapy water to scrub out the spaghetti sauce that had congealed on the kitchen floor and stained the grout. 

“You’ll thank me later,” Ambrose replied, beating a cobweb into submission.

“I know how to clean my own house,” Yuri grumbled, “I don’t need your help.”

“If you can complain, you can scrub,” Ambrose pointed out.

The apartment is practically sparkling when they’re finished. “I hate you,” Yuri declares, scratching at his cheek, his nails loudly scraping at the bristles there, and wonders what time it is in Chicago. He glances at the microwave and suppresses a curse. If he goes to Jade’s now to ask about borrowing books, she’ll fucking murder him for waking her up at five in the morning. Which, he’ll admit, is understandable. To this day, he has the urge to murder Victor for waking him up at the ass-crack of dawn on a Saturday to go train.

“You’re welcome,” Ambrose snorts while rummaging in the cabinets. Yuri flips him off and stalks back into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

When he sees himself properly in the mirror for the first time in what feels like forever, he grimaces. He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in ages (which he hasn’t), and his hair could use a good wash. Instead of hopping into the shower and dumping the entire bottle of shampoo on his head, he shaves first and carefully combs all the knots out of his hair. 

“Grow out your hair, they said,” he muttered when his comb gets caught in a snarl, “it’ll be _fun_ they said.”

The smell of coffee permeates through the apartment when Yuri gets out of the shower, and the culprit is sitting in his living room with a mug while flipping through TV channels.

“Sara called,” Ambrose said, “she says she wants us to come down to the quarter, so you might want to put on some trousers.”

“Awesome,” Yuri muttered, picking up the book he’d accidentally damaged earlier and lines up the torn page. Gods, he’s so damn lucky the tear was clean. It should be a pretty easy fix once he finds the right spell to use – of course, Jade might still suspect something ‘cause she’s a fucking terrifying freak of nature.

_Note to self: ask Danny about repair spells_.

He pours himself some coffee into a large travel mug, gets dressed, and then opens a Portal into the London Sub-quarter lobby, which is in a state of chaos as usual. There are two fairly displeased looking wood nymphs handcuffed together while they wait to be booked, and a shifty looking vampire holding out a chipped coffee mug (which has ‘Donashuns Welcom’ clearly hand-painted on it) to all the Exorcists and civilians that walk by.

“Why does he keep coming back?” Yuri asked. Ambrose shrugged a shoulder and Yuri sighed, “Oi! Oli, how many times do we have to tell you? You can’t panhandle here.”

“I ain’t panhandlin’,” Oli replies, then gives his cup a pointed shake, rattling the two coins he’s somehow managed to collect, “I have a _mug_, not a pan.”

Yuri ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to dredge up what little patience he has, “You’re about to have multiple compound fractures if you don’t scram.” he sharply nods at the exit. 

Oli makes a face at him and tucks his mug in his jacket before picking himself up off the bench and shuffling towards the doors and back out into the streets. Probably to find another hovel to squat in for the night. 

“Thank the gods, he smelled terrible,” one nymph muttered to the other.

“OI! PLISETSKY!”

Yuri rubbed at his forehead, already feeling a headache building behind his eyes, “This day just keeps getting better doesn’t it?” he turns to look at Michele Crispino who looks just as tired and irritable as the day Yuri first met him, just slightly older and a great deal crotchetier. “What?”

“I hear you’ve been getting cozy with my sister,” Michele said, narrowing his eyes.

Yuri is praying to whatever deity that will possibly lend an ear, that someone at the Milan Sub-quarter has the fucking sense to not let Michele transfer, not because he’s an incompetent detective but because he’s a godsdamned nuisance. He’s already ‘popped in’ several times over the last two months to threaten people he sees breathing in his sister’s direction. Never in a million years did Yuri think that Michele’s creepy overprotectiveness would be directed at him. Yuri sighs and takes a long much-needed draught from his travel mug and sorely wishes he’d thought to add bourbon because he really fucking needs it.

“Oh yeah, we’re about to have a super romantic rendezvous discussing the dead body that was discovered this morning,” Yuri deadpanned before absently smacking his lips, “Could we wrap this up? I have to get down to the morgue.”

“You think this is funny?” Michele demanded, coming close enough that Yuri can smell whatever overpriced cologne he wears.

“Hilarious,” Yuri said, “I’ll tell your sister you said ‘hi’.”

They leave Michele fuming in the lobby and glaring holes in the back of their heads.

“I’m impressed,” Ambrose said, “I would’ve punched him.”

“I wanted to, believe me,” Yuri admitted, “Fortunately for him, he’s not worth a night in lock up.”

They take the elevator down to the morgue and put on the plastic sanitary gowns over their clothes. Yuri ties back his hair and steps into the refrigerated room where Sara’s got the mundane girl from this morning plus two others out on examination tables.

“Your brother says ‘hi’,” Yuri says, and Sara pauses in the middle of taking notes on her tablet.

“Michele?” she said.

“Do you have some other annoying creepy twin I don’t know about?” Yuri replied.

Sara set her tablet down to massage her temples, taking deep breaths through her nose like she too is gathering all of her patience, "Oh my God.”

“At this rate he’ll ruin all your working relationships here,” Ambrose mused, “Which, I suppose, is what he wants.”

“I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it,” Sara said after taking another moment to breathe, and picks up her tablet, “Right. Down to business.” She walks over to the two strangers, “Remember that scar you pointed out to me earlier? Well, one of the techs recognized it from a previous vic found about three weeks ago.”

The body in the middle has no other marks on it besides the same strange scars carved into their skin and the Y-incision made by the medical examiner who’d performed the autopsy. There’s a greyish cast to their skin, suggesting they’ve probably been in the refrigerator a while. “There are no other marks on the body, and cause of death was listed as cardiac arrest.”

“I’ve never heard of a vampire going into cardiac arrest,” Ambrose said.

“Me neither,” Sara shrugged a shoulder, “It’s super weird. I had to pull this guy out of deep freeze,” she gestured to the third body, “Found about two months ago. Someone made a note in the vampire’s file about possible relation since big guy over here also died of cardiopulmonary arrest, but obviously they got shoved to the backburner for more major cases.”

“And no IDs on any of them?” Yuri asked.

“None,” Sara said, “But, take a look at this.”

The matching scars on their faces definitely tickle Yuri’s memory, but he still can’t put his finger on where he’s seen it before. On the rest of the body, the symbols are varied in pattern and placement.

“I think we’re looking at a serial killer or some kind of cult,” Sara said, “It can’t be a coincidence that they all have the same scar.”

“And whoever it is,” Ambrose mused, “has been active for at least three months. I bet these three aren’t the only ones.”

Sara – already wan under the fluorescent lights – loses the rest of her color. Before they leave, she promises to get them copies of the autopsies.

“Well, that was enlightening,” Ambrose muttered.

“This is going to be a fucking nightmare,” Yuri replied, then chugged the rest of his coffee.

“Hardly any leads and at least three bodies with no ID,” Ambrose said, then shrugged, “We’ve had worse.”

Their division is the smallest in the entire Sub-quarter with just enough space for six desks, a Glass, and two rolling white boards. Their Unit plaque above the door is held in place with a strip of zebra-print duct tape. Yuri’s not too surprised to see the other two members of their Unit inside – Danny’s passed out at her desk and James is the perfect picture of productivity, with a pile of manila folders that undoubtedly contain recent case files that he’s been perfecting for submission all morning.

“I’d say ‘good morning’, but it doesn’t look like it was all that good,” James commented.

“Gee, what gave it away?” Yuri said, setting down his travel mug on his desk and shrugging off his jacket. He looks over at Danny, sound asleep with a mug of stagnant break room coffee in front of her and conjures the books he’s been studying for the past two days. They slam onto his desk with a loud bang and she startles awake, “Huh – wha – I didn’ do it!”

“Rise and shine, Danny,” Yuri crows.

“Oh hell, what time is it?” Danny groans, rubbing her eyes.

“Time to go to work,” Yuri replies.

“We have another case,” Ambrose announced, leaning back in his office chair and fiddling with the Rubik’s Cube he keeps by his computer, “looks like it might be interesting.”

“Body dumps rarely are,” James said, “What makes this one so different?”

“You’re a body dump,” Danny mumbles, picks up her cup of coffee and wrinkles her nose in disgust.

Yuri flips through the borrowed books while Ambrose gives them the update on what happened downstairs and includes their unfortunate run-in with Michele.

Danny cackles, “I wanna be a fly on the wall when he finds out Sara’s been shacking up with her girlfriend for the past year.”

Yuri allows himself a satisfied grin at the look of horror that will undoubtedly cross Michele’s face when those precious rose-colored glasses of his come off. Oh, what a sweet sweet moment that will be and he hopes like hell that he’ll get to witness it.

“If the symbols aren’t of earthly origin, we might have to file a claim,” James points out.

“It’s hard to say,” Yuri said, scanning another page, “I’m not a semiotician.” Immediately he can feel Ambrose giving him a pointed look across their adjacent desktops and Yuri refuses to look up, trying to concentrate on the tome in front of him. His partner is stubborn though, and eventually his patience outlasts Yuri’s resolve.

“But you know someone who is,” Ambrose said when Yuri looks up and glares at him.

“I am _not_ calling him,” Yuri said.

“Calling who?” Danny asked, looking between them, “What’s going on?”

“And why not?” Ambrose asked.

“Because he and the jackass are joined at the fucking hip, that’s why,” Yuri replied, “Calling one means getting roped into conversation with the other. It’s inevitable.”

“Ohhh,” Danny said, “I get it now.”

“It’s either him or Jade,” Ambrose said, calm as a cucumber. Yuri cringes at the thought of calling Jade when he’s not even remotely prepared to deal with her wrath in the aftermath of damaging one of her precious books (which reminds him, he still has to ask Danny about repair spells).

“Fucking…fine,” he grumbles and reaches for his phone. Yuri scrolls through his (short) list of contacts and his thumb hovers over the one listed as ‘Katsudon’.

_I’m gonna regret this aren’t I? _

The phone rings several times and Yuri’s knee starts to bounce, so tempted to just hang-up –

“Yura!” Victor sings on the other end, “This _is_ a momentous occasion! You really should call more often, Yuuri and I have been wondering how you were. You know how he worries.”

“I do,” Katsudon agreed in the background.

“Terribly.”

Yuri massaged one of his temples, his regret beginning to reach critical levels but hanging up now guarantees an unsolicited visit later from the obnoxiously happy couple. Gods, it’s a miracle that they haven’t eloped yet and become even more insufferable.

“Hand the phone to Katsudon, baldy,” he says, “I need to ask him for a favor.”

“Oh, he can hear you, you're on speaker,” Victor replied cheerfully.

Yuri can feel his magic threatening to manifest in response to his increased distress, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to try and remain as calm as possible before he (accidentally) sets the entire district on fire. 

“It’s okay Victor, why don’t you go help Mila?” Yuuri says, his voice having less echo as he gets closer to the phone. “How’ve you been Yura?”

“I’m not dead yet,” Yuri replied, “Are you on a job right now?”

“Well, sort of. We just wrapped up here.”

“When you get a chance, come to the London Sub-quarter,” Yuri said, “I don’t think pictures are gonna cut it.”

“Well…okay,” Yuuri said, “I’ll send you a text when we’re all finished here, and I’ll pop over, okay?”

“Fine…and thanks.”

“Of course, Yura.”

He glares at Ambrose when he hangs up and sets the phone down, “Are you fucking happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Ambrose deadpanned. Yuri makes a face at him and picks up his book. He knows what’s going to happen: in an hour or two, maybe more, Katsudon will show up with Victor in tow who’ll be fucking useless the whole goddamn time and get on Yuri’s nerves. And then they’ll insist he come over for dinner sometime or stop by for a visit, and he’ll refuse because being around those two while they make moon-eyes at each other all day is a hard no. Seriously, he doesn’t know how Mila and Georgi can stand it.

_Fuck my life_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of enjoy parallels, don't you? 
> 
> It kind of feels like forever since I finished _Lux in Tenebris_, even though it's only been a few weeks. How time flies when your life is a raging dumpster fire, amirite?
> 
> SPA - Standard Proficiency Assessment. The preliminary exam all IAPS applicants must take before they can interview to become Exorcists.  
APA/HPE - Advanced Proficiency Assessment or the HUNTER Proficiency Exam depending on where you are in the world. Pretty self-explanatory. You can apply to take it, especially if your SPA scores are high enough, but the general consensus is there's no surefire way of getting approved for candidacy unless you've been recommended. 
> 
> Again: irregular update schedule because your girl is a hot mess, and each chapter is guaranteed to have some errors because, again, I'm a hot mess. Laters!


	2. This Wasn't On the Study Guide

_June 2024; London_

“These glyphs look similar to Linear A, but they’re not phonograms,” Katsudon murmured, frowning as he inspects the symbols on the dead girl’s arms, “How strange.”

“Could it be a dead language?” Sara asked, her pen poised over her notepad. Half the page is already filled with her eagerly scrawled script, and Yuri’s willing to bet she’s shorthanded everything that Katsudon spouted in the past ten minutes.

“Maybe,” he said, straightening and carefully replacing the sheet, “It might be mundane, it might not. Honestly, I’m not much of an expert when it comes to demonic writing systems. As far as I know, Chthonian is the only written language used by demons. And this clearly isn’t it.”

Yuri couldn’t burn those horrifying glyphs from his brain even if he wanted to and it’s been five years since first laying eyes on the crime scene photos from the Heretic Case. Whatever these runes are don’t offend his eyes, instead they look like they were carved into the victims for some other (probably) nefarious purpose.

“Even if it was a demonic language, we wouldn’t be able to assert our interference,” Katsudon continued, “not without sufficient evidence that there was demonic activity. If you submit a claim, we could-”

“It’s fine,” Yuri waved him off, “we can handle this. Are we done here?”

Sara gushes about how great it was to meet ‘Dr. Yuuri Katsuki’ and how he’s ‘done so much, I can’t believe it. Wow’. Fucking _gag_.

The silence between him and the professor is awkward when they leave the morgue. So much so that Yuri starts to think it probably _would’ve_ been better if Victor had been there to fill it with his incessant idiotic chatter.

“Yuri,” Katsudon starts and gods he can already tell this is going to be an attempted heart-to-heart and he really doesn’t have the patience for it right now.

“I’m fine,” Yuri said, “Really. And I’ll pass on dinner, thanks.”

“You’re always welcome,” Katsudon said, always so fucking _nice_. Ugh. “Mila told me to tell you not to be a stranger.”

“I’ll be as strange as I fucking want,” Yuri said, and stepped out of the elevator, “and you can quote me on that when you tell the hag.”

He lets the door to SVU slam behind him and takes a seat at his desk. They haven’t even had the case for a solid twenty-four-hours and he’s already this fucking exhausted.

“Well that was a waste of time. Thanks Ambrose,” Yuri said. His partner didn’t take his eyes off the monitor in front of him.

“You are very welcome,” Ambrose replied.

“So, we’re stuck on square one then,” Danny said, “Awesome.”

“There’s always that troll who called it in,” James volunteered, closing the file he’d been checking for errors.

“He probably won’t cooperate,” Ambrose said, “according to dispatch he sounded quite disgruntled on the phone.”

“They’re _always_ disgruntled,” Yuri rolled his eyes, “it’s a trademark of their species.”

“Still, it’s worth a shot,” Danny popped up, smoothing her sandy hair back into a ponytail and grabbing her jacket. James shrugged, put down his pen and got up to follow her out. Yuri ran his tongue over his teeth and looked at the whiteboard where Danny had written ‘New case!’ and started mind-mapping in purple dry-erase marker. There’s not much on it yet, but Yuri’s seen her fill three whiteboards and then some when a case got complicated.

He checks the time, sighs, and pushes back from his desk, “I’ll be back.” Ambrose made a vague noise of assent, continuing to click through whatever he was looking at.

Yuri opened a Portal and stepped through into early morning sunshine. Most of the plants in Jade’s toxic garden were still in full bloom like it was mid-spring and he eyeballed what he’d dubbed The Purple Monstrosity by the porch railing that had steadily ballooned over the years. It’s vines and leaves had spread over the bottom step, which Yuri stepped over on the way up. It didn’t seem like anybody was home, but the house welcomed him in anyway by turning on all the hallway lights.

The study is quiet for a change, but he still finds himself knocking automatically before opening the doors and going inside. It’s in its usual state of disarray – the ever-present Cadillac that Jade will probably never finish working on, the growing pile of notes, and stray towers of books dotting the room. He pulls a familiar book from one of the shelves and flips through it, skimming the delicate pages and clicking his tongue in disappointment when he finds nothing useful and puts it back. He picks up another, then a third, and a fourth. Zilch.

“I know it’s here,” he muttered, plucking another familiar tome from the shelf and balancing the thick spine in one hand while the other flips through.

“Burning the midnight oil?” he nearly drops the book and swallows a horror-movie screech. Jade looks thoroughly unimpressed. She’s clearly back from a long night of Hunting – black nanofiber sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, her dark hair is pulled into a short ponytail at the base of her skull, and there’s a smear of something too dark to be human blood on her cheek.

“It’s past dawn,” Yuri replied after gathering the remnants of his composure.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Jade deadpanned while slowly crossing the floor, her mismatched eyes uncomfortably piercing. Yuri doesn’t want to squirm. He’s trying so valiantly not to squirm. “You haven’t been eating properly,” she says finally.

It’s so _not_ what he was expecting that he stares at her, completely nonplussed, until he realizes he’s supposed to reply, “I eat fine.” _Totally_ nailed it. Her eyes narrow at him and for a moment he’s reminded of Lilia.

“Dinner, tomorrow night. Celestino’s making carbonara,” she said and there’s clearly no room for argument, “What are you looking for?”

“A book I’ve read on old writing systems,” Yuri said. Jade nods slowly, thinking for a moment before she walks over to a cluster of wobbly book towers, scanning the spines before picking several books from the stacks.

“Try these,” she said, then gave him another Look, “I’ll make breakfast.”

“Thanks,” he replied, rolling his eyes when she leaves the study.

The first book is heavily bound but it’s newer – probably no more than a century old – and the pages aren’t as delicate. Still, he thumbs through carefully but quickly and closes it with a heavy thump when it yields no answers.

He can hear Jade in the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets and taking out plates and pans. He continues to flip through all the books she’s suggested, growing frustrated when most of them prove unhelpful. The last one is bound in frayed red leather, the pages yellowed with age, and he flips through until he finds a familiar sketch -

“Found anything useful?” he startles so bad this time he actually drops the book.

“Fuck,” he wheezed, “Do you _have_ to do that?” Jade looks totally guileless standing there behind him and she tilts her head to look at the book he’s dropped on the floor.

“’A Chronicling of the Early Days’,” she reads aloud, “It’s been awhile since I’ve read that one.”

“I read it in school,” Yuri said, bending down to pick it up, “It was kind of boring.” You’d think a diary of a merchant detailing his exploits while hiding from the mundane Church would be more exciting. It’s considered a staple in the magical curriculum but he’s willing to bet even his most studious classmates wouldn’t remember reading it.

“Very tedious,” Jade agreed, “Food’s ready if you want it.” She turned to leave the study as quietly as she entered it. He flips back through the book until he finds the sketch and takes his phone out to snap a photo of the page before leaving the study.

Jade’s pulling down two glasses when he gets there and takes a seat at the table. He helps himself to two pancakes and a portion of scrambled eggs while his mentor pours them both some orange juice.

“I’d ask how London’s treating you,” Jade said, setting the glasses on the table, “but I’ve already got my answer.”

“Then why mention it at all?” he grumbled around a mouthful of eggs.

“Have you gone back home yet?” Jade asked, raising an eyebrow. Yuri pointedly stuffs his face full of pancake, so he doesn’t have to answer and Jade nods, “Understandable.” 

“I’m not avoiding it,” he tells her after nearly choking on aforementioned mouthful. He totally is, but its no one else’s business but his own if he decides not to admit that out loud.

“I’m not judging you,” she said, holding up her hands, “Just make sure you call Yuuri and Victor once in a while so they know you’re not dead, otherwise I get a concerned text from Mila asking for an update.”

“Great,” Yuri muttered, and stood from the table, “Thanks for the pancakes.”

He opens a Portal before he can reach the front door, knowing better than to open one in the middle of Jade’s toxic garden in broad daylight when all of her nosy neighbors will be out and about. When he steps back into the office, Ambrose is still sitting at the desk where Yuri left him, this time with a fresh Costa coffee in front of him and vaguely scribbled notes on a notepad.

“Productive field trip?” Ambrose asked.

“Very,” Yuri said, taking a seat at his desk. He has no idea who’d want to study an old code used to communicate with members of the magical community hiding from the misplaced wrath of the mundane Catholic Church. It was a language that had been more than dead for several centuries now, but there was always the chance that some nutter would be into it. Ambrose agreed when Yuri explained exactly what he had found.

“I knew I’d seen them before,” he told him, “Never thought I’d be regretting the day I stopped paying attention in history class.”

“I’m just glad at least one of us actually went to a traditional magical school,” Ambrose snorted, handing the phone back after inspecting the picture Yuri had taken of the sketch, “It’s the most solid lead we have so far.”

“Oh yeah,” Yuri said, “_Such_ solid.” Ambrose blinks at him, and Yuri remembers why he makes a point not to spend extended amounts of time around Jade anymore, “There are hundreds of magical historians in the UK. We don’t have time to go through all of them.”

“Then we finish building the profile,” Ambrose countered, “and we narrow our options from there.”

A Portal yawned open in the middle of their office and the last two members of their Unit came tumbling through, smelling like the Thames and cursing like British sailors. Yuri rested his chin in his upturned hands on the edge of the desk, watching them sprawl on the floor.

“So, how’d it go?” Yuri asked.

“He fucking _bit_ me!” Danny said. There are teeth marks visibly oozing fresh blood on her exposed left knee and a nasty scratch on her right hand.

“I told you wearing ripped jeans is impractical for field work,” James said, and she kicks him with her good leg.

“Better get that looked at,” Ambrose advised seriously, “Trolls are scavengers, and who knows what that one’s been eating.”

“Garbage probably,” Danny huffed, getting to her feet.

“Did you find anything out at least?” Yuri asked, sitting back in his chair.

“Hardly,” James replied, “He just kept muttering about trespassers on his turf.”

“’His turf’, like we’re not doing him a favor by not evicting him,” Danny said, hopping up on her desk to better inspect her knee, “What’s a bridge without a nasty, ugly, spiteful, bitey troll to live under it?”

“A better fucking bridge,” Yuri said.

“Exactly,” Danny said, pointing to him with the box of Kleenex, before dabbing at the bite marks.

“Did you two get anything back from Sara?” James asked.

“No, but Yuri’s got a lead,” Ambrose said like they didn’t _just_ have a fucking conversation about this and Yuri glares at him.

“Not a whole lead,” Yuri added, and then explained how the scars on the victims’ bodies had looked familiar and what he’d found in Jade’s library (leaving out the part where Jade somewhat confronted him about his avoidance issues).

“It’ll take us _days_ to comb through every magical historian in Britain,” Danny said, “We don’t know if this perp is killing every three days or every three months. I’m just not sure we have that kind of time.”

“That’s _exactly_ what I said,” Yuri told her, looking pointedly at Ambrose.

“We start with just London then,” James suggested, “The Scribes at the EB Archives ought to know some things, we could ask them for some names.”

Yuri immediately volunteers to stay and research every nerd in Great Britain because like_ hell_ was he going anywhere near European Branch HQ. And risk getting smothered by Team Victor, especially after the way he'd rejected Yuuri's attempt at inviting him to dinner? No way. No sir-ee. He’s happy to sit in front of a monitor until his eyeballs bleed if it means they put this case behind them without getting HUNTER involved.

To his knowledge, there are only two magical universities in the whole of England and several academies that all boast an impressive curriculum and several famous alumni. Northwood Preparatory Academy and its counterpart Northwood College are too far from London to consider, so vetting their staff gets moved to the bottom of the priority list. The Hidden Academy – the most prestigious, probably older than fucking Cambridge – was famous for being located smackdab in the center of London, and none of their staff have the background Yuri’s looking for. 

He’s vaguely aware of Danny adding things to her mind map on the white board, but otherwise he’s engrossed in finding someone in this godsdamned city who would study a language so dead that nobody knows its fucking name. He gets maybe two names out of all the nerdy magical faculty in London and a wicked headache behind his eyes.

“Ugh, fuck,” he groans, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, “Is Ambrose back yet?”

“Not yet,” Danny answered.

“He probably got lost in that fucking labyrinth they call a library,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head back to look at the ceiling instead of the monitors. Danny chuckles but continues clicking and typing away at her own desk. “The fuck are you looking for anyway?” Yuri demanded.

“I’m looking through the coroner’s database,” Danny replied, “seeing if there’s other victims that match ours. You know. The usual.”

“And how’s that working out?” Yuri asked.

“So far? Not too good,” she said, “I got just the two hits, and we already know about those. Either our killer just recently started killing, or something’s changed to make them sloppier.”

“My money’s on the latter,” Yuri said, eyes still fixed on that spot in the ceiling.

“Oh yeah? Got a hunch, do you?” Danny asked and Yuri snorted.

“No, I’m not that far up my own ass just yet,” he said, “Just something about the bodies downstairs. We’re not dealing with an amateur here.”

They looked up at the knock on the door and Sara poked her head in, “Knock knock.” she’s in her civvies instead of her scrubs and her makeup has been retouched which means Date Night with the Missus.

“She emerges,” Yuri muttered flatly, “Finally talked your brother down from terrorizing every Y-chromosome in the district?”

“The Desk Agent took care of that for me,” Sara said, “I just thought I’d drop these off before I close up shop for the night.” she sets down the folders she brought with her, “I got a tox screen on our human girl downstairs. I was afraid the sample might be contaminated from all the pollution in the river, but the results are still enlightening.”

Yuri sits up to take them from her, “How so?”

“Well, I have a time of death now,” Sara said, “Given the minimal decomp and the ketamine and propofol in her blood, I’m spit-balling anywhere between eight and midnight last night.”

“Keta-what now?” Yuri deadpanned and she sighed.

“Mundane pharmaceuticals,” Sara explained, “You wanna knock someone out? These two are your holy grail combo. Even magical hospitals use them now when sleeping spells are too risky. The analyzer also picked up some Diazepam. Bit of a dangerous mix.”

“Don’t you need a license to get your hands on this stuff?” Danny asked.

“Legally,” Sara nodded, “There are other ways to get it, but if you want a guarantee that what you’re getting is quality you have to go through the pharmacies.”

“Thanks Sara,” Danny said, “You’re amazing.”

“I do my best,” Sara said, preening and flipping her hair, “Good luck.”

Yuri reads through the autopsy report, not surprised that Sara ruled the cause of death to be cardiopulmonary arrest. Sara’s comprehensive tox screen displays that the mundane girl tested negative for most common street drugs. He’s still thoroughly disturbed by the fact that the perp wanted to keep the victims _alive_ for an extended period of time, just based on the brief list of pharmaceuticals.

“Slight bruising to left cubital fossa suggests chronic intravenous line,” Yuri quietly reads, “The fuck?”

He sets the file down, feeling faintly sick, and digs the heels of his eyes into his eyes until colors stop dancing behind his closed eyelids. He’s seen his fair share of fucked up things, but this is definitely part of the top ten, if not the number one spot.

Yuri finally lets his hands fall from his face when he gets a text from Ambrose. Glancing up at Danny who’s got a little frown on her face while she combs the autopsy reports.

Ambrose  
  
Two famous researchers in Britain: Jerold Abbott, Gerard Caldwell

“Good news?” Danny asked.

“We have two names,” Yuri announced, spinning his chair around to face his monitor, it woke up with a little wiggle from his mouse and he typed in the names, raising an eyebrow when both old men were credited on multiple sources housed in the European Archives. Two old farts who’d studied symbology and linguistics at a redbrick mundane university and then applied it to their magical studies. _Yawn_.

“Boring,” he added, scrolling through short faculty biographies and synopses of academic awards they’ve won and blah blah blah.

“Financial records might be juicier,” Danny suggested, closing the files and coming around to read over Yuri’s shoulder.

Dr. Jerold Abbott was the most boring of boring old men. He went shopping at the exact same grocery store every other day, there was the occasional swipe at a Marks & Spencer, and the man was clearly addicted to coffeehouses. His handful of Amazon purchases were all completely random and mundane.

“Unremarkable,” Yuri announced, but didn’t mark him off the suspect list. A squeaky-clean bank statement does not mean the guy isn’t capable of terrible things. Gerard on the other hand, has made multiple wire transfers to what looks like a side hustle, in between other mundane purchases. Yuri prints it off and sticks it in their fledgling case file before calling Ambrose.

“Anything?” he answered.

“Gerard has some possibly suspicious transactions on his financial statement. Listed as ‘maintenance’ in the comments,” Yuri said, “Danny and I can pay him a visit if you’re busy.”

**~ N ~**

Dr. Gerard Caldwell lives in a well-to-do suburb on the edge of London, far enough outside the busyness of the city center that he can enjoy the peace and quiet without having an abysmal commute. It looks like a family neighborhood, based off the chalk drawings on the pavement and smattering of children’s toys on several driveways.

Most of these houses have CCTV installed to discourage burglars.

Professor Caldwell does not.

Instead, Yuri can feel the perception barrier around the man’s house. Obviously meant to deter his mundane neighbors from intruding on his perfect lawn. The shingles on the roof are a dark mossy green and there are fallen cherries in various states of decay scattered underneath the large tree in the front yard. At first glance, the house is indiscriminate and ordinary, but upon closer inspection it’s so clean and _tidy_.

He and Danny exchange a look, sharing the same thought: _Control freak_. There’s hardly any dirt or signs of rain runoff on the bricks like on the other houses. The grass is evenly trimmed and there’s not a single blade out of place or grass stain on the clean concrete border. It’s been recently re-painted and there’s no trash or toys or any significant sign that anybody really lives here other than the pristine late model car parked in the driveway.

It makes _too_ much sense and it gives Yuri the creeps. If he could make an arrest based on his level of creeped-out-ness, he totally would.

Danny’s discomfort is palpable, blue eyes fixed ahead and Yuri steps through the barrier first, walking up the drive to the front door, peeking into the windows of the car on his way and seeing not a single leftover crumb or straw wrapper. There’s definitely no CCTV in sight, but he still gets the feeling that all the parents in this neighborhood would warn their children away from this house even without the perception barrier in place.

They ring the doorbell and wait patiently for the old man to answer.

Dr. Gerard Caldwell is colder and creepier in person than his bland faculty photo would advertise. If Yuri could arrest him on the basis of being ‘kind of creepy’ he _so_ would. At first glance he looks like an ordinary old man in a perfectly respectable Ralph Lauren sweater with sharply pressed khakis. But there’s something vaguely off-putting about him that makes Yuri wish they had cause to bring him in for questioning.

“Can I help you?” he asked, perfectly polite but flat and his brown eyes coolly assess them both.

“Dr. Caldwell, we have a few questions for you,” Yuri said, railroading over their agreed plan of attack, “About a student of yours that was recently reported missing. A Wendy Johnson?” he conjures the photo of a bland mundane girl he remembers seeing on the news, pulling it from his coat.

“Any information you could give us would be greatly appreciated,” Danny added. Yuri silently thanks whatever deities linger in heaven that he’s on a team of competent professionals.

“Oh dear,” he replied, frowning, “I’m afraid I don’t know anything. I’m tenured at two universities, classes are four-hundred strong at least, you see. I can’t keep up with them all.”

“If anything comes to mind, please give us a call,” Danny offers him a business card which he eyes like she’s trying to hand him something slimy and wriggling before gingerly taking it between the tips of two fingers and shutting the door without proper salutation.

“What the hell was that about?” Danny asked when they cross back through the perception barrier.

“Something’s not right with him,” Yuri said, “Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same.”

“He’s rude and creepy,” Danny replied, “Doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”

“It doesn’t mean he’s innocent either,” Yuri retorted, “Whether he’s the culprit or not, whether he meant to kill those people or not-” Danny blinks.

“You think those people died by _accident?_” Danny blurted.

This really isn’t something they should be debating in the middle of the street.

“Oh, for gods’ sake,” he mutters, and pulls her through a Portal, back into the office. He picks up the autopsy file to shove it in her direction, “Look. No signs of malnutrition or dehydration noted on exam. They were kept _healthy._”

Danny flips through the note, “Chronic intravenous line? Oh shit, the _sedatives_.”

“My guess is, someone made a mistake while pushing the drugs,” Yuri said, “I can’t really say the same for the vampire that’s in the freezer.”

James and Ambrose make their entrance then, carrying bags of what looks like take out from one of their regular restaurants just up the road. Dinner is eaten while they have a roundtable (figuratively speaking) discussion about possible leads.

“Dr. Abbott translated a couple of those funny symbols for us,” James said, “This one, apparently, means ‘demon’ and this one could mean ‘to make whole’ or ‘intercourse’. He, er, wasn’t very clear.” Yuri vaguely hopes that this doesn’t turn out to be a case where the perp is some kind of deranged psycho who thinks he’s an artist and fancies carving bad fan fiction into people as some kind of art form.

“Anyway,” Ambrose redirects, “did you get anything from Caldwell?”

“Besides, that he’s a control freak and most likely a sociopath?” Yuri deadpanned, “Not much.” He spoons another generous mouthful of curry sauce and rice into his mouth while Danny elaborates.

“So, he’s…clean?” James asked, “That’s all I’m hearing.”

“Not even a crumb or a forgotten sweet wrapper in his car,” Yuri said, “It’s like he doesn’t want any aspect of his lifestyle to look lived in.”

James didn’t look convinced, but Ambrose was thinking it over. “How many magic practitioners do you know have a perception barrier around their home? In a non-magic neighborhood?” Yuri finally pressed.

“Perception barrier?” Ambrose muttered.

“Any licensed Warlock or witch could set one up,” Danny said, “but it’s an unusual service to employ, unless you’re dealing in something shady.”

James reluctantly agrees that they should keep an eye on Dr. Caldwell and Danny adds some things to her mind map on the whiteboard. Their current list of suspects is paltry and there are too many healthcare professionals in the whole of Britain to consider vetting and interviewing them all, so they start with tracking the drugs.

“How do people do this for a living?” Yuri complained, rubbing at his eyes, “This is so _boring_.” 

“It’s necessary,” Ambrose said from behind his pile, “apparently, it’s supposed to help minimize the waste of resources.”

“I agree with Yuri,” Danny said from her spot on the floor, “this is _very_ boring.”

“It’s not all bad,” James said, attempting to reassure them with a smile that’s obnoxiously pearly against coffee-dark skin.

“You don’t get an opinion on this,” Danny said flatly, gesturing with an inventory sheet, “You like paperwork too much.”

Yuri set down the stack in his hands to rub at his temples. The only thing he’s managed to learn after leafing through four-hundred pages of drug lists and quantity counts is that all hospitals – especially the major ones – buy in bulk. It’s far too easy for resources to slip through the cracks and sitting around here trying to track pharmaceutical orders and shipments is probably just wasting time. Gods, he’s so _tired_.

“How about,” Ambrose finally says, “we get some sleep? All of this will be here in the morning, yeah?”

As boring as this is, sitting at home with absolutely nothing to do will be absolutely mind-numbing. But staying in the office after regular business hours will undoubtedly prompt lots of lecturing and a threatened phone call to Russia.

So, he goes home. He takes off his jacket and his shoes, then turns on the TV where the news is running another segment about a _real_ missing person, not some party girl that ran off with a married man to live it up on the beach in Cabo. The blurb is brief, they flash a photo or two on the screen and the number to call with any information before moving on to other news. Yuri tunes all of it out while he puts the kettle on.

His bedroom looks so strange when it’s tidied, he’s so used to the chaos of dirty laundry and scattered notes. His laptop has been placed neatly on his nightstand and his alarm clock – the one that he accidentally fried a few weeks ago – is gone, probably in the trash. He’s not surprised when he finds his dresser neatly organized and filled with his nicely folded laundry.

The kettle is whistling when he gets out of the shower, and he settles on the couch with his piping cup of tea. Minutes go by – or was it longer than that? – between the first and the second sip and Yuri makes a face then curses when he realizes his tea has gone cold, before finally calling it and going to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me how many hours I spent researching the half-lives of every common sedative known to man. I almost feel sorry for the FBI agent monitoring my search history.
> 
> I was hoping to have another chapter lined up for another Halloween upload, but that might not happen. Also, it's been over a year since I started this series. _Y'all._ A _year_. Other than college, this is probably the longest commitment I've ever made in the short history of my adult life. 
> 
> Laters!


	3. And That's What You Missed On Glee

_June 2024; London_

“What if we’ve been looking at this the wrong way?” Danny suggested from her desk. Clearly, she’s abandoned looking through the piles of inventory sheets in favor of another angle entirely.

Yuri stares at her from the door to the office, “Have you been here all night?” _that_ was a dumb question. It was quite obvious that she hadn’t gotten any sleep. Her hair was greasy, noticeably unwashed, and she was wearing the exact same clothes from yesterday.

“That’s irrelevant,” Danny said quickly, “I think we should focus more on where they’re keeping the victims. You pointed out that they wanted to keep them healthy. Intravenous lines mean a risk of infection unless you’re in a sterile environment.” Yuri blinks at her. It sounds like she went further down the Google rabbit hole than he originally thought, but she could probably be on to something.

“So, we’re looking for a hospital,” Yuri said slowly, “Maybe a clinic?”

“I ruled out hospitals,” Danny said, shaking her head, “They’re too big and too noticeable. And finding one that’s been closed down for them to squat in won’t happen. Hospital buildings are too valuable to stay vacant or abandoned, especially in a population dense area.”

“Maintenance would be stupid expensive,” Yuri agreed, following her train of thought, “Are we even sure they’re keeping them within London city limits?”

“They could be moving them,” Danny said, “But, that comes with greater risk of getting caught. Transportation Circles are too heavily regulated in Britain, and mundane transport involves too many cameras.” Especially if they’re crossing over the Thames. That bridge requires a toll, which means every single vehicle with a civilian license plate gets its picture taken and an invoice sent to the registered owner if they don’t cough up within seventy-two hours.

“Hiding in plain sight would be safer,” Yuri finished.

The door opens behind him and James stops on the threshold, Starbucks in hand, looking between the two of them, “What are we talking about?”

“We’re establishing a geo-profile,” Yuri told him.

“Already?” James said, crossing over to his desk to set down his iced coffee. He gives Danny a considering look, his head slightly cocked, “Danny have you slept?”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Yuri: completely irrelevant,” Danny said, “Now, I did a search for clinics that went out of business or bankrupt and were put up for sale. Unfortunately, there was a lot.”

Translation: I hit a wall and I was too frustrated to sleep. Yuri and James exchange a brief look.

“Look for properties that are still privately owned,” James suggested, “but maybe listed for rent or for sale.”

Danny pursed her lips in thought after typing for a moment, “Okay, that narrowed it down significantly. Anything else?”

“It’ll be a property that’s been on the market for a while,” Yuri added and glanced over at Ambrose who’s giving them all an odd look from where he’s standing by the door.

“You’re all here early,” he commented.

“Or maybe you’re just late,” Yuri replied. Ambrose rolled his eyes and came to stand next to Yuri, crossing his arms as he contemplated all the additions to Danny’s mind map. She’d added notes in different colors that probably all meant different things, tacked up various maps of London – some were covered in stickers, others just marked with Sharpie – and added post-its with hastily scribbled additions in all sorts of bright neon colors. It looked like a chaotic secondary school project.

“Did you get _any_ sleep?” Ambrose asked.

“Irrelevant!” Danny half-shouted, standing up abruptly from her desk, “Now, _these_ are the locations of the various clinics.” She started putting stickers on one of her maps (that wasn’t covered in stickers) and paused after putting on the fourth sparkly yellow smiley face, “I probably should’ve made a bigger map.” Yuri suppresses a sigh and rubs at his forehead. Even if they did hash out the geo-profile and narrow down where the victims were likely being stashed, a large-scale raid would be impossible if one of their number was sleep-deprived. Yuri, fortunately, knew a decent sleeping spell that would knock Danny out for a few hours.

There’s another map of London marked with red dots in sharpie to indicate where the bodies were dumped. There’s no defined radius with any of the dump sites and Yuri tilts his head, wishing they knew more about previous victims to get a clearer kill radius. Danny clearly sees a pattern he doesn’t, because she starts blacking out yellow smileys with a dry erase marker until all but three are left. “I’ve eliminated all the clinics that were more than fifteen miles from any of the dump sites,” Danny said, “That leaves us with these three.”

“We’ll give them all a look,” James said, “one of them is bound to be the right place.”

“Coffee first,” Danny said, picking up her mug and pulling a face at the contents.

“Uh…” Yuri started.

“_You_ are going to eat a proper breakfast and then sleep for the next four hours,” James said, immediately plucking the cup out of her hands and setting it back down on the desk.

“But-but,” Danny protested, gesturing helplessly at the chaos that is her mind map.

“We’re no good to anyone if not all of us are one-hundred percent, now are we?” James continued, trying to steer her out the door but she’s digging in her heels and trying to slip around him, occasionally glancing at Ambrose and Yuri for help.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, “I’m not a child-“

“Danny,” Yuri snapped, “either you take a nap right now or I’ll knock you out.” she stopped then and fixed him with a look of betrayal.

“Well, when you put it like that,” she sulked and stalked off.

James blinked after her, and then looked like Yuri like he was seeing him in a whole new light, “For once your callousness is an asset.”

“Fuck off,” Yuri replied, rolling his eyes and taking a seat in his chair.

“You don’t look like you slept much either,” Ambrose pointed out, leaning on the edge of Yuri’s desk.

“What’s the old saying? Quality over quantity?” Yuri said, rubbing at his temple. Ambrose doesn’t look impressed. “I slept fine, _mum_.” he’d only had a mild nightmare last night and actually woke up at a decent hour. His only regret was that he hadn’t made a third cup of coffee, but at least he’d actually brushed his hair.

“She must have come back right after we all left,” James murmured from where he was carefully inspecting the board, tracing every line and reading every note, “This is hours of work.” Danny’s desk is a mess of print outs, hastily scribbled notes, several mugs of stale or spoiled coffee, and a half-eaten croissant buried under a stack of old case files.

Yuri can’t say he’s all that surprised. As long as he’s known Danny, at least, she’s always thrown herself into every case with the same vigor that he’d had back when he was a bratty intern following Victor around. Gods know that keeping Danny from chasing a lead or an idea is virtually impossible. He remembers the first – and _only_ – time she collapsed from exhaustion during a stake out and how pissed he was to find out that she’d pulled three all-nighters and still insisted on doing field work.

“You ought to check on her,” Ambrose suggested, “otherwise she’ll just work at home.”

James curses, promptly rushing off, and Yuri rolls his eyes, _Always a mother hen._

He stands up to grab the forgotten coffee from James’s desk and takes a sip, “Ugh. This is terrible.” Bitter coffee with flavored syrup? He doesn’t understand why the man doesn’t just drink it black like most vampires do since they can’t have dairy. He takes another sip, wrinkling his nose at the unfortunate clash of favors on his palate.

“Why are you still drinking it then?” Ambrose asked.

“Call it desperation,” Yuri muttered, making a small gagging noise, and set the drink down before he could scar his taste buds even further. 

He inspects the map that Danny’s freshly marked with stickers, running his tongue over his teeth. It’s a tough choice, choosing which one to stake out first. Eventually, he conjures a pen and a short stack of post-it notes to write down the address of the clinic that’s furthest from all three dump sites.

“Are we leaving already?” Ambrose asked, calmly watching Yuri head for the door from his desk.

“You’re not telling me you wanted to sit around here all day,” Yuri said, turning to give him a look.

“Of course not,” Ambrose said, taking his feet off the desk and standing, “I was just hoping I’d be able to finish my coffee first.”

The clinic itself is largely unassuming from afar. The building looks like it had been in the process of being repainted when it had unexpectedly closed and left the job half-finished, and there was a sign posted with a company name and number to call if one was interested in renting the place. Yuri can vaguely make out where the name of the building had been installed in large neon letters. There are a few windows facing the street, but they’re dark and shuttered. Next to him, Ambrose is all squinty eyed and taking little sniffs at the air.

“What?” Yuri asked, trying not to sound too annoyed.

“Smells weird,” Ambrose replied, wrinkling his nose, “I can’t explain it but, it’s definitely coming from over there.”

There’s hardly anyone parked on this street, and very little traffic coming this way. Even so, Yuri takes the precaution of making sure any CCTV with a decent view has a brief electrical problem just as they’re making their entry.

“_Lucerna_,” Yuri murmured, taking care not to make the light too big. The windows aren’t completely boarded and just anyone could be walking by.

“Strange,” Ambrose commented.

It _was_ strange. Everything had been left as is – equipment and supplies had hardly been touched. A few of the rooms still had sanitary paper covering the beds. Even stranger still was that there was hardly any dust which meant someone was still regularly coming by here. If not to clean, then to do _something_.

“Yuri,” Ambrose muttered, stopped in the middle of the hallway with his head tilted, “there’s a generator. This place still has power.”

Yuri immediately tried a light switch, but nothing happened. If he strained his ears, he could make out the faint hum of electricity just like Ambrose, but every light switch and button he tried didn’t seem to work. They searched every room and closet for a hidden door of some kind, pushed every button, and flipped every switch.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Yuri growled, “There’s got to be a hidden room or something. Nobody keeps the power hooked up to an empty building if the wiring is shot.”

“Yeah, but how are they getting in?” Ambrose stressed, “If we can’t find the door-“

Godsdamn it this was a waste of fucking time.

“Fuck it,” Yuri decided, “I’m going to punch through.”

“Yuri no-!” Ambrose protested.

It had taken him months to develop concentrating the scattered photons making up his lightning into a tightly controlled ‘blade’. He’s pretty sure when he’d created the technique, he hadn’t anticipated using it to cut holes in the floor…but then again, he could easily say nothing in his life turned out the way he wanted it, so this is keeping perfectly with the theme.

Ambrose is facepalming and shaking his head and Yuri’s ignoring him, squatting down to sit at the edge of the uneven hole cut big enough for him to slide through. It’s a surprisingly short fall – maybe only a minute – before he hits the ground, hearing a crack and when he looks down, he sees the ceiling tile and a bit of building material under his boots.

“For gods’ sake, Yuri,” Ambrose hissed, landing neatly next to him, “What if this place was _guarded?_”

“I wouldn’t have done it if I suspected that this place had fucking security,” Yuri snorted, Ambrose fixes him with a Look knowing _that_ was a flat-out lie. “Talk about arrogance. Whoever these people are they’re really fucking confident that they won’t get caught.” He makes the light a little bigger and the both of them go quiet.

They’re standing in a hospital. 

Suddenly, he got the feeling that waiting for their colleagues probably would’ve been a better idea (he immediately squashes it).

“Danny’s gonna be so fucking pissed that she missed this,” Yuri breathed. And she wouldn’t be appeased by the knowledge that their choice was sheer dumb luck.

“That smell, it’s stronger down here,” Ambrose looks distinctly uncomfortable and when Yuri glances at him, he can see the slightest black corona bordering Ambrose’s irises. Yuri almost suggests that they turn back but holds his tongue. His partner is a trained Exorcist, just like him, and wouldn’t have come this far if he wasn’t able to handle it.

The rooms on either side of the hallway they’re standing in are each labeled with a color and a number. A peek into a few of those rooms reveal empty beds covered in sterile white sheets, with a monitor mounted on the wall.

They split up to search for any victims still being held captive here.

Every room Yuri checked is empty just like the first one. Every bed covered in those same sterile white sheets.

He finds a room bigger than the others that looks more like a small operating theatre. A large overhead lamp hangs like a misshapen flower above an empty bed, and a blank monitor with multiple wires hanging to the floor. There are carts full of supplies, and a shiny silver tray on wheels not too far from the bed. There’s a vague smell hanging in the air that doesn’t quite mesh with the antiseptic lingering everywhere else. He steps inside to get a better whiff, taking in deep even breaths through his nose.

_What _is_ that smell? _

It almost reminds him of the incense that Katsudon’s family burns in their little shrine, but there’s a note of something else, something _darker_ that gives him the oddest sense of foreboding. It makes all the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his brain frantically wave every single red flag. If this is what Ambrose has been smelling, and he suspects it is, then Yuri can start to understand why he's been so twitchy. 

His light catches an irregularity in the waxing on the floor and he squints, temporarily forgetting about the smell while he squats down to get a better look. Whoever cleaned this place regularly had obviously tried their best to cover up the imperfections in their work, but fortunately for Yuri, whatever had been written here had been written often enough that layers of floor wax couldn’t entirely erase it all. He traces the gaps with his finger – wishing for once that he could write in the air with his magic like Katsudon – then decides that’s stupid and conjures a dry erase marker instead.

The symbol on the floor is glaringly obvious to him now that it’s filled in and he suppresses a curse. He doesn't have to look to know that they've drawn those same odd symbols in a perfect ring and erased them multiple times. 

This room isn’t an operating theatre, it’s a goddamned ritual space.

He takes out his phone and snaps a few pictures, even though it’s possible they won’t be admissible in court even if they do catch the bastard who’s been running this place. He wishes he’d thought to conjure a set of comms for himself and Ambrose, because running around in here blind without backup is as stupid as coming here alone.

Bile rises in the back of his throat the more he looks around the room and he wishes he could burn the whole place down and leave it at that.

He gets about halfway down the hall when he hears _something,_ and he stops. His heart rate rises, and for a moment all he can hear is the sound of his own pulse in his ears.

_Music, _his brain finally supplies, _someone is here. _He dims the light a little, and holds it close, squinting past it into the dark hallway. 

_Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’…._

The aether gives him a standard handgun, and he clutches it firmly, his finger off the trigger for now while he follows his ears to where there’s a gap in the corridor, opening up into what looks like a nurse’s station. On the other side, there’s a few solid wooden doors – underneath one there’s a solid strip of yellow light.

_…dream a little dream of me…_

He should back away, try to get a signal to Ambrose so they can patch the hole Yuri made in the ceiling and return with reinforcements. It would be the smart thing to do.

And yet, his feet move towards the door before he can tell them to do anything else, his gun pointed at the floor until he can confirm whether the suspect is armed.

_…sweet dreams ‘til sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you…_

He murmurs the spell that allows him to see through the door. There’s a woman in a white coat sitting at the desk, playing music from her little Bluetooth speaker and occasionally glancing at the remote monitor to her left. Yuri followed her gaze to the other screen that was divided up into six boxes, his heart almost in his throat, until he saw that it wasn’t displaying security footage but vital signs.

Five of the boxes were completely blank, but one wasn’t. Oh, _fuck_.

There was no time to find Ambrose and return with reinforcements. If they left and tried to come back, there was no guarantee that the victim would still be alive by the time they did. Hell, there wasn’t a guarantee the hospital would still be here later.

“_Intervigilium_.” It took a moment for the spell to reach the doctor – was she even _really_ a doctor? – and Yuri watched her try and shake off the effects at first before collapsing into a dead sleep at the desk. He let the spell on her door fade and stepped into the office, letting his gun dissipate into smoke and conjuring a Suppression bracelet to restrain her. He glances up at the little speaker playing music from the phone connected to it and goes to turn it off but pauses – if his human ears could hear the music, then so could Ambrose’s.

He glances instead at the monitor, where the vital signs are displayed in real time. Under the music, Yuri can hear the soft ‘boop’ of the monitor in an even rhythm with the heartbeat on the screen.

“Yuri.” the gun is back in his hand without a second thought and pointed at his partner who’s looking between him and the woman in the white coat, then at the monitor. Yuri breathes a low sigh and lowers his weapon.

“I think she was left behind to keep watch,” Yuri said. There’s no other explanation for it, really. She doesn’t appear to be armed, but then again neither does Yuri and he can conjure lightning.

It’s too late to pretend that they’d never been here and now that they know there’s someone here, they can’t just leave them.

When they find the room with the victim inside, attached to the monitor, Yuri feels some of the urgency bleed out of him.

Until they find that they can’t wake him.

They know he’s alive just based on the vitals displayed on the monitor, but the man could easily be dead – or close to it – as wan as he is underneath the grim fluorescent lights.

“He needs a hospital,” Yuri said, and Ambrose gives him a look, “A _real_ hospital, dumbass.”

He gladly disconnects all the wires and electrodes plastered to the victim’s chest and torso. The blood pressure cuff singes under Yuri’s touch, his magic boiling underneath his fingertips, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek while they finish unhooking him so he doesn't set everything on fire by mistake. 

Yuri half-contemplates opening a Portal and just pushing the poor guy through on the bed. It would be the quickest way, and he doesn’t want to linger down here anymore than Ambrose does. And they still have to deliver the doctor lady to booking after waking her up and extracting her testimony.

Gods, not waiting for Danny and James was starting to seem like an even stupider idea in hindsight. 

In the end, Yuri levitates the victim carefully out of bed and through the Portal into the nearest IMC hospital.

“I could use fucking some _help_ here!” he shouts when everyone in the waiting room just stops to stare for a moment. The triage nurse standing by the check-in desk immediately pages for assistance. He ignores the gawking people waiting to be called back for treatment and carefully lowers the stranger onto the bed they wheeled out into the lobby while the nurses fire questions at him.

“No, I don’t know his name or date of birth. I don’t know anything about him,” he tells them, “I’ll be back.”

Ambrose is with the white coat when he crosses back through, scrolling through whatever she’d been working on when Yuri had so rudely interrupted.

“It’s a chart,” Ambrose told him, “like the reports we write for cases, but she’s documenting vital signs and medications given.” The chart that she’d had open had clearly been for a previous ‘patient’ that had expired, with the diagnosis clinically written as ‘cardiopulmonary arrest secondary to accidental overdose’. 

The ‘I bloody knew it!’ dies in his throat before it can reach his mouth.

Ambrose pries open the tower – the actual computer – attached to the monitor with a screwdriver conjured from the aether and carefully, _painstakingly_, detaches _something_. Yuri can’t see very well, craning his neck to get a better view (while trying to make sure the woman doesn’t suddenly wake up and give them trouble). Finally, Ambrose stands with what looks like a slim piece of plastic. He can see where the front of the box was attached externally to the tower. He knows enough about computers thanks to Mila being a complete technology freak, but even he’s at a loss, “What’s that supposed to be for?”

“It’s the computer’s storage, Yuri,” Ambrose says, “If they’ve been charting on every single victim they take, then this is worth it’s weight in gold.”

That settles it then. The doctor and the drive come with them, and Yuri makes a note to start using that sleeping spell in the field more often because this lady is still out cold even after Yuri accidentally (on purpose) banged her arm against the door to the holding cell they put her in.

Yuri is glad to collapse back into his desk chair for a brief respite, leaning his head back and fixing his stare on that spot on the ceiling tiles. Soon, they’ll have to notify the Sub-quarter chief of their break in the case, which Yuri isn’t looking forward to.

Whoever’s been kidnapping people is bound to notice that their last ‘patient’ is gone and so is the doctor. And when that happens, they’ll cover up their tracks. The amount of evidence they’ll lose is staggering and could potentially damage their case…on the other hand, there’ll be one less body washing up on the banks of the Thames and they’ll have a key witness.

“Who are you texting?” he finally asked.

“Guess,” Ambrose replied, barely looking up from his phone.

Yuri quietly prays its Ambrose’s wife (even though he knows it’s not), and when James comes barreling in the door five minutes later -

“Are either of you hurt?” James demanded. Yuri blinked at him, totally nonplussed.

“Ambrose, what did you tell him?” Yuri asked Ambrose who looks just as confused.

“Something about a trip to the A&E, and you were headed back to the office soon-“ James rattled off.

“Did you read _all_ of it?” Ambrose asked slowly, squinting at him.

“Goddammit, we _talked_ about this,” Yuri swore, “Read _all_ the messages, not just the latest ones from your lock screen.”

James calms significantly while he listens to what happened during their reconnaissance-turned-rescue, his nose briefly wrinkling in disgust when Yuri mentions finding the doctor there left behind to watch the last ‘patient’.

“It’s a good thing you did go,” James said, “He probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer in there.”

“He’s at Blackstone now,” Ambrose told him, “Hopefully he’ll wake up and give us a strong testimony.”

Yuri frowns and stands abruptly from his desk.

“Where are you going now?” James asked, exasperated.

“Coffee,” he answered shortly, and lets the door shut behind him.

The Sub-quarter lobby is busy as usual, quietly bustling with activity. The Desk Agent is conspicuously missing (Yuri eventually spots her dragging Oli out by the scruff of his ratty threadbare coat) and there’s three working girls giving their statement to a bloke Yuri recognizes from Homicide.

There’s a café not too far from where the Sub-quarter is quietly tucked away from prying mundane eyes, and the morning crowds have already disappeared. Several students have taken up prized tables next to the outlets with their laptops and it’s blissfully quiet.

He takes a mocha and a sausage roll to go, quietly munching while he walks until he finds a good place to slip through a Portal and into Blackstone Medical Center.

Somehow, Yuri’s not surprised (but still disappointed) to see that John Doe still isn’t awake, even though the lights are on and a young man in sky blue scrubs is sticking him with a new IV.

“Are you family?” he asked, not-so-subtly glancing at Yuri’s Tags. 

“Second cousins twice removed,” Yuri deadpanned, “No, we’re not related. I just wanted to speak to his nurse.”

The nurse doesn’t ask any ridiculous questions, and Yuri tells her what he can about how he found John Doe and what he believes may have been used to sedate him.

“Is there any chance you could, I dunno, wake him up?” Yuri asked, glancing back at the too-still figure lying in the bed.

“’Fraid not,” the nurse said, “We don’t know how much they gave him. Trying to reverse the effects could potentially cause more damage. All we can do is watch and wait for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was surprised that I managed to get this done in time for Halloween. It's probably riddled with errors I didn't manage to catch even after reading it through eighty-seven times, but oh well. 
> 
> I hope y'all have a safe and spoopy Halloween!


	4. Is There Something in My Teeth?

_June 2024; London_

“His name is Otabek Altin,” Ambrose told him, “Mundane. You’ve probably seen him on the news.”

It takes a moment for Yuri to process, but he remembers now: the little blurb, a segment on the BBC with pictures flashed across the screen, and a solemn woman making an appeal on international television for her son to be returned home safely. “Is that why he looks so familiar?” Yuri deadpanned.

“Mm,” Ambrose replied, continuing to scroll through the article he’s pulled up on his tablet, “He’s a figure skater. Internationally ranked. One of the best in the world, apparently. Olympic gold medalist, national champion, and world champion. He could probably build a monument from all the medals he’s won.” Ambrose holds up the tablet, showing a photo of a much healthier version of the man, standing on a podium with an Olympic gold around his neck and his country's flag behind him.

Of course, Yuri’s heard of the Olympics – some prestigious mundane sport competition to determine whose country’s athletes were best. The closest he’s ever gotten to ice skating is that time when he chased a drug lord across Loch Ness in the dead of winter while the lake had been frozen solid.

“Huh,” was all Yuri said.

“According to the police report, Mr. Altin checked out of his hotel after the World Championships here in London five hours before his flight back home was due to leave,” Ambrose continued, “But, he never made it to the airport. He got into a taxi and wasn’t seen again. That was three months ago.”

Now it had been three days since the raid, and he had yet to wake up. The staff were heavily monitoring him, not quite sure what had been done to him to make him sleep for so long. The drug screen they ran was completely negative and every test so far had been completely benign. It looked like all they could do now was wait.

“Why mundanes?” Yuri asked, narrowing his eyes at Otabek’s sleeping face, “Why all this effort?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ambrose replied.

His first theory is that the victims are being shipped off and sold to a bidder somewhere in an underground slave market of some kind, but there are too many variables. And just to make it that much more annoying, the only person who can give them decent answers is being stubbornly tight-lipped.

Ambrose had had to pull a few strings in Intelligence to get ID on their main suspect, since – surprise, surprise – she’d refused to even tell them her name.

Dr. Helen Ashworth was a fully vetted medical doctor who’d lost her license six years ago after her involvement in a pharmaceutical scandal went public. She’d managed to buy her way out of prison time, but gods know how she managed to get wrapped up in all of this.

“You’ll go down for all three kidnap-murders,” James had informed Dr. Ashworth solemnly after twelve hours of unsuccessful interrogation, “and you’ll never see the light of day again.” Still, she hadn’t said a single word. Not even to demand a lawyer (some people took the right to remain silent a little _too_ seriously).

Yuri wants to see her again just so he can punch her in the face.

There was no guarantee that the doctor wasn’t working alone, so between the four them they took shifts at the hospital. As long as Otabek was here getting treatment, he was vulnerable, and – at this point – their most valuable witness.

_Weird though_, he suddenly thinks, _how they didn’t mark his face_.

The other symbols on his arms are an exact match, even though they’re in an entirely different order, but he’s missing the odd geometric shapes on his cheek and forehead. Yuri can’t see any other marks on him besides the yellowing bruise in the crook of his elbow where he’d been repeatedly stuck with an IV.

The ringing of Ambrose’s phone disturbs the silence and Yuri watches his partner step out to answer before glancing back at the book left open in his lap. He marks his place and closes it, turning his body sideways in the chair so he can drape his legs over the arm and rest his feet in the unoccupied seat. He sighed and leaned his head back against the cabinet full of equipment behind him.

One minute turns into five and eventually Yuri gets tired of sitting there and he hauls himself out of the chair with a sigh and steps out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him, but leaving the curtain open so he can keep an eye on Otabek while getting the scoop.

“What’s up?” he asked, just as Ambrose hung up.

“Dr. Caldwell was reported missing this morning,” Ambrose says, and Yuri freezes, his insides going cold with dread, “His assistant filed a complaint after he didn’t show up to classes the past two days. Missing Persons got a call from the Hidden University with a request to investigate it. From what they’ve told me, it’s like he vanished into thin air.”

“Oh fuck,” Yuri swore, careful to keep his voice low, and Ambrose hummed in agreement. He glances aside at the nurse who slips into the room to check on the saline drip and Otabek’s vitals.

“I’d anticipate a call from Missing Persons. Danny’s already talked to them, but they’ll want to corroborate with you,” Ambrose advised.

“I’m eager,” Yuri deadpanned, “Excited. Bursting with anticipation.” He slips back inside the room and plops back in his chair. 

“I’m going to head back to the office,” Ambrose said, poking his head in, “Text if you need anything, yeah?”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Yuri waved him off, picking up his novel and opening it back up to where he left off. The door quietly closes and Yuri glances over at Otabek, running his tongue over his teeth in thought, before turning his attention to his book.

If Dr. Caldwell has disappeared so coincidentally after SVU comes poking around, Yuri’s ninety-eight percent sure his hunch about him was right and he’s involved in this somehow. His obvious control freak tendencies conflict with his seemingly random disappearance, though. A man like that would want to meticulously plan a subtle get away and quietly disappear.

He closes the book with a growl and puts it away because he’s clearly not going to get much reading done at this rate-

“Excuse me?” it’s so soft that he almost doesn’t hear it, and his heart almost stops when he makes direct eye contact with their previously comatose patient. All of his training keeps him from shrieking in surprise like a scandalized nineteenth century noblewoman.

“Uh…what?” he blurted.

“Could I get some water, please?” totally nonplussed, Yuri stands mechanically to go get it.

_I really should tell the nurses_, he thinks blandly. He can hear them chatting not too far from where he’s standing. Instead, he quietly walks back into the room.

“Thank you,” Otabek rasps when he carefully takes the cup.

“Drink slowly,” Yuri tells him, his brain finally starting to catch up, “or you’ll make yourself sick.” He takes a seat while Otabek sips on the water, grabbing his phone and typing up a fast text in the group chat.

Henchmen   
  
He's awake.

He sets his phone aside, resolving to ignore it despite the storm of notifications that follow after he hits send. He knows that his colleagues will be making their appearance soon whether he replies or not.

“Where am I?” Otabek finally asked.

“A legitimate hospital,” Yuri answered, “Blackstone Medical Center, central London.” Otabek quietly curses in what sounds like Russian, and his expression tightens with discomfort while he slowly sits himself upright.

“Has-has my family been informed?” Otabek asked.

“Not yet,” Yuri said, and Otabek closes his eyes with relief. Yeah, Yuri gets it. He wouldn’t want anybody he knows to see him like that either – weak and frail. Besides, releasing him back to his family will take coordination with Mundane Relations.

He calls the nurse to help Otabek get out of bed so he can go to the toilet. Yuri grabs his phone and checks the chat, his eyebrow twitching in annoyance as he reads through all the messages.

Henchmen   
  
He's awake.   
  
Danny   
???!!!!!   
  
James   
How is he?   
  
Ambrose   
Confused probably.   
  
Danny   
We're on our way.   
  
James   
Scratch that. We are not on our way.   
  
Danny   
Why not??

At this point, Yuri imagines, is when James gave up on texting and just yelled at Danny verbally. Gods, it amazes him how someone so competent could be such an airhead.

Henchmen   
  
Ambrose   
We'll give him the day before bombarding him, yeah?   
  
Fine

The nurse returned Otabek to his bed and announced the doctor would be in to evaluate him soon, in the meantime she would fetch a menu for him so he could call craft services and place a food order. Otabek – polite as ever – thanks her and she leaves the room.

Otabek hardly says a word between his food being delivered and the doctor coming in to perform the physical exam. In the end, the diagnosis is simple: Otabek is slightly underweight.

“We’ll keep you for one more night, just to make sure you’re progressing as expected,” the doctor told him, “but I don’t anticipate anything bad happening. You look pretty healthy otherwise.”

After that, Yuri loses track of time while reading his novel, only looking up with an annoyed frown when the shuffling coming from the bed becomes almost unbearably annoying.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded.

“If I sit in this bed any longer, I’m going to lose my mind,” Otabek said, carefully extricating himself from the bed – he no longer has to worry about the IV now that he’s awake and (mostly) functioning like a human being – and standing on slightly wobbly legs. Yuri huffs through his nose and marks his place before setting his book aside. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“Uh, yeah. I do,” Yuri muttered.

The lights on the observation unit floor have been dimmed so the patients that are actually resting won’t be disturbed at this hour of the night.

“You know,” Otabek says quietly, when they pass the nurse’s station, “I never got your name.”

Yuri snorts, “You know, I’m starting to understand why you got kidnapped.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t understand why someone would kidnap mundanes and carve an old magical code into their skin. Otabek gives him a withering look for that. “Right. Too soon. Sorry. Agent Yuri Plisetsky.”

“’Agent’?” Otabek repeats, “Are you with MI6 or what?”

“Let’s go with ‘or what’,” Yuri said after a beat, because how do you explain what you do to a mundane? ‘I hunt rapists, child-killers, and slave-traffickers and, as an added bonus, I can shoot lightning out of my fingers.’ Yeah. He can see that going over _real_ fucking well. Besides, victim or not, Otabek is still a mundane and Yuri has not been cleared at all to divulge the existence of the Agency and the magical world.

“I’ve never heard of a law enforcement agency that wears dog tags,” Otabek commented.

Yuri resists the urge to touch them, “We’re the special ones.” He knows mundane soldiers wear something similar, but he’s not about to get into the specifics of the Exorcist Tagging system with a mundane who’s still reeling from being held captive for three months. If Otabek’s getting annoyed at how evasive he’s being, he doesn’t show it.

James is waiting by the room when Otabek’s decided he’s had enough and Yuri escorts him back.

“Agent James Colbert, a pleasure to finally meet you,” James is careful not too show too many teeth when introducing himself.

“Otabek Altin.” Otabek glances warily between the two of them.

“I’ll be taking over watch tonight,” James told him, “Agent Plisetsky here isn’t much of a night owl.”

Yuri makes a face at him and grabs the book he’d brought with him while Otabek carefully got back into bed. He steps back outside the room where James is still waiting, and he closes the door.

“Have you told him anything yet?” James asked, lowering his voice

“Hell no, I haven’t,” Yuri replied quietly, “And I haven’t asked him any questions either. I thought we were being considerate or some shit.”

James sighed and glanced at the door where the curtain had been closed to grant the occupant some privacy, “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

See you in the morning, indeed. It’s so tempting to go back to the office and try to do more digging, but a shower and warm pajamas after sitting around and absorbing the hospital smell sounds _fantastic_.

He collapses into bed with his hair still wet, letting out a deep sigh when his head sinks into the pillow. Then, his buzzer is going off and he raises his head from the pillow, cursing at the wan sunshine peeking through the blinds then cursing some more at the time.

“What the fuck?” he groans, crawling out of bed and shuffling out of his bedroom to answer the door. “How the fuck are you awake?” he demands when he lets Ambrose in.

“How the fuck aren’t you?” Ambrose retorted, “I thought James came to relieve you at a decent hour.”

“If you can call midnight a decent hour,” Yuri grumbled, kicking the door shut.

“Fear not, I brought coffee,” Ambrose sets down the drink carrier on the table, along with the other bags he has hanging off his arm, and hands Yuri his cup.

_Ah, sweet caffeinated heaven_. He takes several generous sips of his mocha, surveying Ambrose’s haul with a raised eyebrow.

“What’s this supposed to be?” he points accusingly to the Tesco’s bag.

Ambrose stares at him blankly, “He needs clothes, Yuri. Or were you hoping to have Mr. World Champion traipse about London in a hospital gown?”

Oh. Right.

Otabek is being discharged from the hospital today, which does necessitate clothing since all his personal affects were stolen.

“I hope, for Altin’s sake, that Z helped you pick those out,” Yuri tells him, “otherwise he might prefer wearing the hospital gown.”

Ambrose looks slightly offended, “Coming from someone who thinks _leopard print_ is socially acceptable.”

“It’s better than that _eye-scorching_ sweat suit you like to wear to the gym,” Yuri retorts, kicking the door to his bedroom shut behind him.

After a shower and finishing his coffee, he feels relatively human again and when they get to Blackstone Medical Center it does look like James is ready to call it a day.

“About time,” he grouches, and takes the tea that’s offered to him with a muttered ‘thank you’.

“Any developments?” Ambrose asked.

“Not much,” James shrugged a shoulder and then lowered his voice, “I do think he suspects that I’m not human.”

“What? Did you smile too wide at him or something?” Yuri snorts. James is relatively young for a vampire, only around sixty or sixty-five, but he’s more than mastered the art of keeping his fangs concealed.

“He’s clever,” James said, “but trustworthy, I think.”

Yuri and Ambrose exchange a look, but don’t ask their colleague to elucidate beyond that. It’s up to the MR Department to judge whether Otabek is trustworthy or not, and even if they decide he is they’ll be keeping tabs on him for the rest of his life.

Otabek is sitting up in bed watching television when they walk in. It looks like someone’s given him an elastic to tie his hair back in the interim.

“Mr. Altin, I’m Agent Ambrose Bloodworth, a pleasure to meet you,” Ambrose introduces himself, sounding perfectly pleasant. Yuri refrains from snorting out loud (no matter how many times he hears the full name, it never fails to sound pretentious). “You’ve already met my partner Agent Plisetsky.”

Yuri doesn’t bother with any greetings given that Otabek just saw him seven hours ago.

“Here are some clothes for you. I’m afraid we haven’t had much luck tracking down your things,” Ambrose tells him.

“That’s fine,” Otabek says, even though it’s clearly _not_ fine, “I probably won’t be needing my skates for awhile anyway.”

They step out to let him get dressed and as soon as the door is closed, they both sigh.

Yuri’s almost forgotten how hard mundane cases are. Sure, he’s perfected the art of not-answering specific questions to avoid violating the Code, but he’ll never be an expert at reassuring victims that there is a life beyond their trauma and their encounters with the supernatural.

The nurse gets a last set of vitals before handing Otabek his discharge paperwork (Yuri’s relieved to see they gave him the mundane ones that don’t have the moving animatics) and giving him a lecture on how he needs to get plenty of rest and stay well hydrated. Otabek looks slightly bewildered in his Tesco’s t-shirt and sweatpants that are slightly too long in the leg, being lectured by a tiny nurse in cheerful purple scrubs.

“Hungry?” Yuri asked once the nurse leaves.

“I could eat,” Otabek shrugs.

The hospital isn’t accessible via a hidden door. Taking a Transportation Circle or a Portal in is the only way and explaining that away to a mundane is going to go _so_ well.

But, Yuri’s surprised when Otabek doesn’t say a single word. He just stands there, suddenly in the wan London sunshine, looking a bit disoriented (gods, they _really_ need to get him some better clothes).

“We’re taking him shopping after breakfast,” Yuri declared. Getting his testimony can wait. He won’t be able to focus if he has to stare at that shitty t-shirt all day.

“What’s wrong with what he’s wearing?” Ambrose said.

“Are you fucking serious? Sweatpants with _flip-flops_, ‘Brose? He looks like a nutter we dug out of a charity shop dumpster.”

Otabek opened his mouth, then shut it again after a glance down at himself.

“Again, having this argument with someone who regularly wears _leopard print_,” Ambrose emphasized.

“Fuck off, at least I know what colors are,” Yuri retorted.

Nobody looks twice at two plainclothes Exorcists and their probably sketchy friend in sweatpants that probably cost three pounds. Otabek doesn’t seem to mind the clothes all that much, too busy scarfing down the large English breakfast he ordered.

They take Otabek to a nearby H&M and get him a decent pair of shoes, jeans, much better t-shirts, and a leather jacket that he picks out.

“Better,” Yuri declares when Otabek emerges from the fitting room looking like a productive member of society, “you’re wearing those out.” he crumples up the receipt and shoves it in his pocket. Otabek gives him an assessing look, dark eyes flat.

“Are you always this bossy?” Otabek asked.

“He’s usually worse,” Ambrose chuckles. Yuri flips him off.

Of course, the chuckles and fun don’t last very long when it comes time to actually take Otabek to Central Sub-Q. Yuri notices him blinking at the building when they lead him up to the entrance, like he hadn’t noticed it was there – which was the point. A mild perception barrier made the squat little building forgettable. Mundane eyes slid right past it to the sandwich shop next door.

“Is this your headquarters?” Otabek asked, his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline at the sheer size of the lobby inside. It’s chaos as usual with the Desk Agent in the middle of it all, perfectly unflappable. He can hear phones ringing and he swats away an errant paper memo that’s currently trying to make its way to Strange Crimes.

“Not even close,” Yuri snorted.

It gets quieter once they’re further away from the lobby and sequestered away in their office. Yuri lets out an exasperated huff when he sees Danny sound asleep at her desk. Again.

He and Ambrose exchange a look, simultaneously rolling their eyes.

“C’mon Danny, time to go to work,” Yuri said, planting his foot against the side of her chair and kicking it over. Danny woke up mid-fall, her upper body sliding off the desk and going down with a loud, “ACK!”

“You have _got_ to stop sleeping here,” Ambrose told her, “At this point, paying rent on your flat is redundant.”

“I slept at home,” Danny protested, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and picking herself up off the floor, “Writing reports is so _boring, _especially when it’s for another Unit.” she blinks when she notices Otabek and approaches him with her hand outstretched, “Dannielle Mansfield, pleasure to meet you, just call me Danny. Otabek right?” Otabek nodded and shook her hand.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” he replied.

“Woohoo,” Yuri deadpanned, “Now we all know each other. Sit, so we can get this over with.” he points.

“Bossy,” Otabek comments but obeys (Yuri ignores the chuckles from his colleagues).

“We’ll try and make this as painless as possible, but no guarantees. What do you remember about the day you checked out of your hotel?” Yuri asked, taking a seat at his desk. Otabek frowns and scratches at the stubble dusting his cheeks.

“Anything you can recall is fine,” Ambrose added.

“It’s a bit…blurry,” Otabek finally answered slowly, “I remember my alarm going off at five-thirty and going downstairs and I texted Lauren to tell her I was leaving…” he trails off, eyes distant while he racked his brain. “There was a taxi already there. The driver said he wasn’t reserved…” he stops again.

“Do you remember what he looked like?” Yuri asked, “The driver?”

“He was my height, I think,” Otabek answered, quite obviously fighting with his brain, “he was wearing a hat…I don’t remember his face, but he smelled like cigarettes. I remember thinking ‘he must smoke a pack a day’ when I got in the car, then, um…” he pauses, trying to recall what happened next.

“That’s probably when they drugged you,” Yuri mused. 

“I don’t…I don’t remember,” Otabek said. 

“That’s fine,” Ambrose interjected, giving Yuri a Look, “you don’t have to force yourself.”

“Retrograde amnesia is more common than you think,” Danny said, “it’s the brain’s way of protecting itself from major trauma. Over time, you may regain your memories, or you might not. Really it’s a guessing game.”

Still, Otabek doesn’t look all that happy. Yuri can’t really blame him. He doesn’t know exactly what went on in that underground hospital, but he knows that it couldn’t have been pleasant. He glances at Ambrose, who quietly signals to him, and they step out to give Otabek a moment.

“We should leave it there,” Ambrose says when the door is closed behind them, “Forcing it at this point will do more harm than good.”

“Agreed,” Yuri murmured.

“James already contacted MRD,” Danny said, “no ETA on when they’ll be able to assess him and arrange for his release.”

“Of fucking course,” Yuri grumbled, “never-fucking-mind that he’s one of the most high-profile mundanes in the history of ever. They can’t expedite that shit?”

“Probably not,” Danny sighed.

Telling Otabek that he can’t contact his family just yet does _not_ go over well.

“What kind of organization _are_ you?” he demands.

“Holistic,” Yuri answered flatly.

“The suspect we’ve apprehended may be in league with other partners,” Danny explained, “Until we’re for certain that you and your family aren’t at risk, we have to keep you in protective custody.”

Well…it’s not a lie. Otabek gives her a flat unimpressed look, clearly fed-up.

Ambrose takes the opportunity to segue into where Otabek will be staying while the MR Department gets their shit together and arranges for an interview. Yuri isn’t about to offer for Mr. World Champion to crash at his tiny one-bedroom apartment. He’d rather live in a hotel dumpster for a week and keep tabs on their witness with a pair of binoculars.

“You can stay with my wife and I,” Ambrose offers, “we’d be happy to have you. It’d be better than staying in a hotel or living in the hospital while we investigate.”

“You’re the only one with a house anyway,” Yuri snorts, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, “The rest of us aren’t _real_ adults with wives and guest rooms and full-size kitchens-“ Ambrose gives Yuri a withering look that says, ‘Must you?’ and Danny lets out a loud snort.

“I don’t want to impose,” Otabek said, “Really.”

“Honestly, do you really want to live in a hotel indefinitely?” Yuri says and Otabek opens his mouth, “Exactly. He wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t mean it, so shut up.” Otabek closes his mouth and gives Yuri a considering look.

_Call me bossy again_, Yuri narrowed his eyes, _I fucking _dare_ you. Protocol be damned, I’ll turn you into a goat-_

“Now that that’s settled,” Danny clapped, dissolving the tension, “A few more questions for you.”

A file is somehow produced from the chaos of her desk and she pulls out a photo – a mugshot, is a more accurate description – of the unfortunate Dr. Ashworth. Her face is drawn and solemn as she stares into the camera and Yuri still wants very much to punch her in the face. 

“Do you recognize her?” Danny asked. Otabek stares hard at the photo, a frown creasing his forehead until he finally shook his head. “What about him?” she holds up a photo of Dr. Caldwell this time, but the answer is the same.

“I’m sorry,” Otabek apologizes.

“It’s not your fault,” Danny says, “it’s probably too soon is all. Best to let you rest now anyway, yeah?”

Otabek looks like he’s about to argue but thinks better of it in the last minute. He leaves with Ambrose, leaving Danny and Yuri sitting in the office in pensive silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of you left any guesses about who the rescued victim was, which tells me that I've become predictable. *sigh* 
> 
> Anyway, since Yuri on Ice!!! is essentially an anime about skating I figured making Otabek a skater was...fitting. More on that later. I had to cut some things out because I was going to a. give too much away, and b. it would've dragged on for too long. So, an update sooner than I had previously postulated.


	5. I Will Not Go Down With This Ship

_June 2024; London_

It’s fucking unbelievable that there aren’t any fucking eggs in a house where there are _two_ fully functioning adults. Pulling his head out of the fridge with a low curse, he straightens and looks over at Otabek who’s been standing just outside the kitchen in his fugly overlarge sweatpants and Tesco’s t-shirt for Hades knows how long just judging the shit out of Yuri.

“What?”

“Are you looking for something?” Otabek asked slowly. It’s been a day or two since Yuri last saw him, and he already looks like he’s on the mend. It doesn’t look like he’s had a chance to cut his hair yet, but at least he’s shaved. There’s more color in his cheeks and his eyes don’t look as haunted. Even the scars on his arms have started to fade.

_Zhenya must’ve given him a cream_.

He still has to gain back all the weight he lost. The man who stood at the top of the podium at the World Championships had significantly more meat on his bones. It’s a miracle that his muscles hadn’t completely atrophied after a significant amount of time being stuck in a hospital bed.

“Not anymore,” Yuri slams the refrigerator door shut and glances at all the shit he’s lined up out on the counter. The _one_ time he actually feels like cooking and he’s missing a crucial ingredient. Fucking figures. He runs his tongue over his teeth, contemplating going to the supermarket just to get the damn eggs. But he can’t leave Otabek here by himself, even if the trip is short and the protection Yuri set up on this house is top notch.

“You up for a field trip?”

He gets an eyebrow raise as his answer, which he assumes is a ‘yes’ because Otabek gets changed and they take a little stroll to the nearest supermarket. He’s assuming Mr. World Champion hasn’t been out of the house much, so it makes sense that he’d be so ridiculously eager for even this much contact with the outside world with only Yuri for company and the weather threatening to take a much less pleasant turn.

The little Asda outlet isn’t terribly busy and Yuri doesn’t bother to grab a basket, heading straight for the refrigerated aisle and grabbing two cartons of eggs. When he straightens, he doesn’t see his charge behind him like a faithful shadow and suppresses the knee-jerk reaction (which is to completely panic) long enough to find him by the cereal. He quietly breathes out a sigh, relief immediately replaced with agitation, “Oi, Mr. Champion, we’re leaving.” Otabek looks borderline offended but follows Yuri to the cashier.

Outside, the sky is starting to look more turbulent with dark grey clouds threatening a deluge, perhaps with some lightning thrown in there for taste. Still, there are people from the village – mostly the elderly – taking a stroll and walking their pets. At one point, Otabek stops and kneels when a curious Corgi comes sniffing at his ankles.

“I’m sorry,” his owner apologizes, “he’s too friendly for his own good.”

“It’s no trouble,” Otabek says, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears.

“Come on, Mr. Champion, before the eggs spoil,” Yuri says loudly. The old lady gives the lead a little tug and wishes them a nice day before continuing her antalgic shuffle up the street, her Corgi waddling alongside her.

“You know you could just call me Otabek,” Otabek said, “considering that’s my name.”

“Mr. Champion isn’t good enough for you?”

“I’m not _just_ a world champion. I’ve got other interests and hobbies besides skating. And I’ve basically been freeloading off you people for the past three days, you can drop the ‘mister’ altogether. Especially the ‘Mr. Altin’. People call my _dad_ ‘Mr. Altin’.” Otabek looks a bit uncomfortable.

“Okay, fine, _Otabek_,” Yuri concedes, because the man does have a point. In his defense, he can’t gain access to any of his assets until the MR Department gets off their ass and sets up that interview and Yuri knows that if he were in Otabek’s shoes he would’ve been demanding a phone call home at the very least. He runs his tongue over his teeth, “You like pelmeni?”

And it’s weird, but Otabek is all for helping him out in the kitchen. Insists on it even. Yuri grudgingly allows it, even though he hates people in his space when he’s trying to cook. Besides, he looks like he’s slowly losing his mind just sitting around Ambrose’s house. So, Otabek gets put in charge of cooking the meat while Yuri makes the dough.

The pop and crackle from the frying pan fills the silence between them, providing decent background noise while Yuri mixes the flour, water, buttermilk, and eggs until it congeals into a sticky mound of dough. It’s not as awkward as Yuri initially thought it would be, especially since neither of them are particularly chatty and feel the need to buffer the silence with inane small talk. He glances up in the middle of rolling the dough out flat with the rolling pin, meeting Otabek’s eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Otabek murmurs, shaking his head and returns his attention to the frying pan. Yuri continues to glare at him for a moment or two, before going back to rolling and shaping the dough.

_What the hell is his problem? _

“If you’ve got something to say then say it,” Yuri said.

“It’s fine,” Otabek replied, “I was just thinking.”

_Yeah, right_. Yuri knows that they’re keeping him in the dark a lot, which probably makes Otabek uncomfortable and Yuri can’t say that he blames him. Danny has already vocalized her thoughts on telling Otabek a little bit more, _I think we can trust him_. But there’s no fucking way that Yuri is risking prison, the viability of this case, and Otabek’s future for a hunch.

His phone interrupts his thoughts, startling him out of staring into the pot of slowly warming oil, and he clicks his tongue in annoyance before handing off the thermometer to Otabek, “Watch this, will you?”

He makes sure he’s out of earshot before he answers, “What is it?”

“The MR Department finally called,” Ambrose told him. There’s white noise in the background of the call that sounds like Ambrose is on the road.

“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ in there,” Yuri muttered.

“But,” Ambrose continued pointedly, “they want to see him now.”

Yuri pulls his phone away from his ear to look at the time, “Right this second?”

“Yep,” Ambrose sounds about as exasperated as Yuri feels. It’s too last minute and it screams disorganized. Usually, they’ll give at least half a day’s notice. “I’ll be there in about ten minutes, so make sure he looks decent.”

They didn’t buy him any formal clothes, but Yuri’s seen interviews done with the interviewee in pajamas so Otabek’s jeans and clean t-shirt will do. He walks back into the kitchen where Otabek’s still watching the oil and checking the temperature with the thermometer.

“Change of plans,” Yuri announces and turns off the stove, “you’re needed downtown.”

“Downtown?” Otabek frowned.

“The prosecutors want to talk to you,” Yuri said. It’s not completely a lie. The MR Department certainly has lawyers to oversee the legal proceedings when a case involves a mundane, but they won’t be the ones on the floor in court.

“But…I thought...” Otabek starts.

“Yeah, we thought too and look how that turned out,” Yuri finds the cling film and wraps the plate of uncooked pelmeni before sticking them in the fridge, “Might want to grab a jumper. It looks like rain.”

Ambrose arrives exactly on time to pick them up and books it as soon as their seatbelts are fastened.

“Now, I know there isn’t much time to prepare, but it won’t be all bad,” he says while accelerating onto the M1.

“Will you slow the fuck down?” Yuri snaps. He’s never understood how Ambrose manages not to get caught speeding with all the speed cameras and recent increase in highway patrol.

“Time is of the essence, Yuri,” Ambrose replies easily and accelerates by another ten miles. Yuri rolls his eyes and glares out the window, while Ambrose continues, “You’ve met with lawyers before, right?”

“Yeah, for brand deals and contract stuff,” Otabek replied.

“It’s basically like that,” Ambrose said, “but without all the haggling. You tell them your story, they tell you how the trial works.” Of course, leaving out the part where being able to go home and freely live his life depends entirely on this going well. Yuri runs his tongue over his teeth and thinks of the abandoned pelmeni waiting to be cooked back at Ambrose’s house.

When they get to the Sub-quarter, there’s the usual chaos in the lobby with the Desk Agent dragging Oli out the doors by one of his ankles. Yuri tugs Otabek out of the way of the front doors and leads him upstairs to the fifth floor.

“It’s so quiet,” Otabek comments.

“Only place quieter is the morgue,” Yuri says and Otabek blinks at him. The other floors seem to always be in a state of perpetual chaos with phones ringing off the hook, paper memos flying everywhere, and harried Exorcists scrambling. In a sharp deviation from the anarchy downstairs, the local MRD office is all neat bland cubicles with men and women working diligently on various case files and combing through compiled intel given by the Intelligence Department. Yuri can barely contain his distaste for this place. He’d have flung himself from the top of the BT Tower if he had to work in this kind of set-up for more than a day. Just _looking_ at the cubicles gives him claustrophobia.

Two men in suits that look like they’re from the main office at European Branch Headquarters wearing Sub-quarter visitors’ badges on lanyards around their necks approach them and introduce themselves.

“Thomas Murdoch,” says the first one. 

“Sam Wexler,” says the second.

The two of them look like generic lawyers from the generic lawyer factory – dark hair, plain suits, ugly ties. Otabek is perfectly polite – as always – when he introduces himself, shaking their hands like he’s done this a million times. They don’t bother with Yuri since he’s not who they’re here to see.

“Agent, if it’s alright with you, we can proceed,” Thomas says.

“Fine,” Yuri replied.

The interview room is a great deal cozier than the interrogation rooms they have downstairs. Cushy chairs, a couple of windows, and a corner with bean bags and toys for younger victims or the victims with children. Yuri doesn’t follow them inside, instead he stands by the viewing window which is glamoured from the inside. 

“Before we begin, we are obligated to tell you this interview is being recorded,” Sam tells him.

“I understand,” Otabek says.

They ask Otabek to give his testimony and it’s pretty much the exact same one he gave Yuri’s Unit three days ago when he was first discharged from Blackstone. Clearly, his memory hasn’t improved even after several days of rest and distance from the office.

“What’d we miss?” Ambrose asked, popping up next to him with Danny in tow.

“Nothing much,” Yuri replied. 

“Yeesh,” Danny says quietly, “the MR Department reps get more and more bland every time I see them. At least HR has some personality.”

“They do look a bit like androids,” Ambrose agreed.

“I wonder if they have to download new emotions at the end of each workday,” Danny snickered, Yuri snorts and tries not to grin.

In the interview room, Otabek is frowning at the fading scars on his forearms. “Were you allowed to interact with other people? Or were you mostly kept in isolation?”

“I don’t remember,” Otabek answered. If Otabek is frustrated, he’s hiding it fairly well. Inside the room, the reps exchange an unreadable look. Then, Tom and Harry or whatever the fuck their names are, ask Otabek about his stay in the hospital.

“How long were you there?”

“I was told three days.”

“Did any members of the staff stand out to you?”

“Not particularly…”

“At any point did you feel like you weren’t safe?”

“I was in protective custody,” Otabek replies, but doesn’t say ‘yes or no’. He’s treating the reps like the sports journalists he probably deals with on a regular basis. He’s perfectly calm, his face carefully blank and his answers are polite and honest. It’s probably the most civil and boring interview Yuri’s ever witnessed.

“It’ll be some time before a trial is set, with the case still open,” Thomas – or was it Sam? – told Otabek, “until then, details about the case must remain confidential to preserve the integrity of the investigation.”

“That includes your family and your friends,” Sam – or Thomas? – added.

“If you have any questions, you’re more than welcome to reach out to us.”

The MR Department reps leave the room first after shaking Otabek’s hand again, nodding to the three of them waiting outside, “Agents.” They don’t say anything else, which is a pretty good indication of their verdict: Otabek is free to go home.

“I told you so,” Danny sang quietly.

“Telling him anything would have compromised the interview, and you know it,” Yuri countered just as quietly.

“Telling me what?” Otabek asked, the door to the little room swinging shut behind him.

“You get to go home now,” Danny said brightly, “Your obligations here are done.” Otabek’s face is inscrutable as he looks at the three of them.

“That’s it?” he blinks.

“That’s it,” the three of them reply.

They take him back downstairs to their office, which is still in the same sorry state of disarray. The only difference is that Danny’s added more to her mind map since the last time Otabek was here.

“Here,” Yuri shoves his phone at Otabek, “You can call…whoever.”

Otabek slowly takes it from him, “It’s an international call-”

“I’m well aware that your family is back in Kazakhstan, Mr. Champion,” Yuri deadpans, “Just don’t hog the phone.”

Yuri watches him dial and hold the phone up to his ear. In the enclosed silence of the office, he can hear it ringing and then the click of someone on the other end picking up. Otabek’s expression changes when he hears the greeting in Kazakh in his ear.

“A-_anam_?”

At that point, Yuri steps out to give Otabek some actual privacy, closing the office door behind him.

“He’s so sweet,” Danny cooed, “Thinking about the cost of an international call, even in the middle of all this.”

“Yes, how very…selfless of him,” Yuri said flatly.

“I think he likes you,” Danny declared, sounding almost smug. 

“Yeah, and we all know how perfect your intuition is, don’t we?” Yuri snorted, “He doesn’t even fucking know me, Danny.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to like you,” Danny rolled her eyes, “’Brose am I right?”

Ambrose just gives her a shrug. Translation: don’t bring me into this.

“Come on, back me up here,” Danny complained, “Don’t you want our Yuri to have a May to December romance?”

“Isn’t it June?” Ambrose asked. 

“Ugh,” Danny groaned, “You’re missing the point!” 

Yuri stalks off to the breakroom to make himself a cup of shitty coffee. He makes a face when he finds that the pot is barely lukewarm and the coffee in it has gone stagnant. “Fucking disgusting,” he mutters, dumping the whole lot down the drain. He finds the can of ground coffee and carefully measures out the grounds. He gets too impatient waiting for the clunky machine to warm up so he gives it a tap and the first hot drops of liquid caffeine finally start to filter out into the pot.

Exorcists start to trickle into the breakroom, no doubt summoned by the smell of fresh coffee, and Yuri pours himself a cup then dumps in enough creamer to satisfy his sweet tooth for the next two days. Taking his cup, he goes back to the office, passing Danny and Ambrose who are embroiled in some kind of argument now.

He opens the door just as Otabek hangs up the phone, his eyes slightly red-rimmed and glassy, and he sniffles. Yuri offers him the box of Kleenex and Otabek wordlessly takes a tissue and blows his nose. Yuri takes a seat at his desk and sips at his halfway decent cup of coffee.

“Do you want a hug?” Danny offered after sidling her way into the office and seeing Otabek dab at his eyes with the tissue.

“Um, no thank you,” Otabek replied, “I think I’ll be okay.”

“If you’re sure,” Danny said, “I give the _best_ hugs.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Otabek tells her, completely straight-faced. Yuri snorts into his drink.

“You’ll have to make your own travel arrangements,” Ambrose says, sounding a bit apologetic, “and we won’t be able to provide an escort home-”

“That’s fine,” Otabek interrupted, “Really. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done already.”

Yuri took his feet off the desk and threw away his paper cup, “Well, this was fun, but I have pelmeni waiting to be cooked.”

Otabek stands up too and Ambrose heaves a long-suffering sigh before volunteering to drive them back. The ride is decidedly more awkward than the earlier drive to the Sub-quarter with Ambrose quietly keeping his focus on the road instead of babbling about the consultation. And the awkwardness doesn’t stop there. Otabek is significantly more withdrawn while Yuri heats the oil on the stove and carefully drops in the dumplings.

Yuri overshoots his limit when Otabek nearly splashes hot oil everywhere plopping in the pelmeni willy-nilly.

“Okay, _why_ are you so mopey?” Yuri demanded, “You’re going home. You get to have your life back.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that simple,” Otabek replied after a pregnant pause.

“Of fucking course it won’t,” Yuri snorted, taking the cooking spider from him, “but you’re, what, a two time World Champion? Olympic gold medalist? Pretty sure _that_ wasn’t simple. But you fucking did it. What makes this any different?”

“Um…”

“That was a rhetorical question, dumbass,” Yuri says, “My point is: you’ll be fine.” With time and lots of therapy, maybe. It helps that Otabek’s retrograde amnesia is so severe. His brain, at least, is doing its job and protecting him from most of the trauma.

“Thanks,” Otabek murmurs.

“Don’t mention it,” Yuri grumbled, “Seriously don’t. I’ll make sure they never find your body.”

Otabek gave him a thumbs up.

The pelmeni are finished in significantly less awkward silence.

**~ N ~**

Mr. and Mrs. Altin insisted on coming to London themselves to personally escort their son back home, and their nonstop flight from Almaty was due to land at Heathrow any minute now.

“Staring at it won’t make the plane land any faster,” Yuri told Otabek, turning another page in his book. The Arrivals board refreshes again, but the status next to the Altin’s flight number still says, ‘On Time’. He doesn’t know how he got roped into fucking airport duty when Danny is perfectly capable of keeping Otabek safe on her own. He’s supposed to be at the office with James and Ambrose looking through cold case files to see if any other kidnappings could possibly be related to their current investigation, but nooo, he gets stuck being a goddamned glorified babysitter-

“One large latte for you,” Danny chirped, plucking a cup from the drink carrier and handing it to Otabek, “one overly-sweetened monstrosity for you,” she hands Yuri his drink, “and a cappuccino for me.”

“Just because you were born with no taste buds,” Yuri muttered before sipping at his caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle.

“Thank you,” Otabek said, polite as always.

Danny plops down on Otabek’s other side, happily drinking her coffee and Yuri goes back to reading his book.

“You nervous?” Danny asked after a minute of precious silence. Clearly, she’d noticed Otabek checking the Arrivals board.

“A little bit,” Otabek admitted.

“It’s perfectly normal,” Danny told him, “I’m sure they missed you.”

“Yeah,” Otabek muttered.

Even after the flight status changes from ‘On Time’ to ‘Arrived’, it still takes some time for Otabek’s parents to come out. Waves of people emerge from the Arrivals gate into the baggage claim in short bursts as they pass through the nightmare that is customs. Somehow, Otabek spots the couple in the middle of the next wave of travelers and the happy reunion takes place just a few feet away from the two Exorcists on standby.

“What is this, _The Notebook_?” Yuri mutters scathingly. He hears a sniffle to his right and he slowly turns to give Danny a disbelieving look, “Are you fucking crying?”

“No,” Danny denied, shaking her head and lightly dabbing at her eyes, “my eyes are just sweating.”

Yuri opens his mouth to tell her how stupid that is when he’s suddenly enveloped in a hug and all that comes out of his mouth is, “Uh…”

Mrs. Altin didn’t look like much of a hugger when he first saw her on the BBC, but clearly, he misjudged.

“Thank you,” she says, “for taking care of my son.” She must’ve gone to a British university, probably Oxford based on her posh accent and how expensive her perfume smells. 

“We’re just…doing our job, ma’am,” Yuri said, internally cringing at how _lame_ he sounds. Danny pulls a tissue out of nowhere, seemingly by magic (heh) and goes to hand it to Mrs. Altin but she gets enveloped in a hug too.

“Truly, we…we are very grateful,” Mr. Altin’s Kazakh accent is a little thicker than his wife’s, but that could also be because he’s just as choked up as his better half, “We almost lost hope.”

Yuri’s sure as shit not going to tell them it was pure luck that they’d found their son. He has enough tact to let them appreciate the miracle for what it is. He’s just about had enough of the sappiness though, his skin crawling with the urge to get back to work.

“We’ll let you get to it, yeah?” Danny said, “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Thank you,” Otabek said, “for everything.” 

"Yeah well, take care," Yuri replied. 

Yuri and Danny headed in the exact opposite direction of the Altins who would probably find a taxi to take them to the hotel they’d booked for the night before their trip back to Almaty in the morning. They take the scenic route to the parking garage where there will be plenty of hidden corners and secluded spots to open a Portal back to Central. 

“They seemed nice,” Danny commented.

“Yeah, sure,” Yuri scoffed.

“Come on,” Danny wheedled, giving him a Look, “Don’t be like that just because you’ll miss him.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, “You’re not still on about that May to December bullshit again are you?”

“Maybe,” Danny teased.

They take the elevator up to the higher levels where there’ll be significantly less risk of being caught out doing magic in the open.

“How long do you think the charm will hold?” Danny asked.

“It should keep him safe long enough,” Yuri replied, “even if it’s not airtight.” The two of them had layered their magic as best they could as subtly as they could, but Yuri still suspected that Otabek knew _something_ was going on. “If I’m being generous, I give it three months before it wears off.”

“That sounds about right,” Danny agreed. A protection charm on anybody is bound to raise some practitioner eyebrows, but a protection charm on a _mundane_ will attract unwanted attention. They’re taking a calculated risk, but the two of them unanimously agreed that some protection was better than none.

Yuri quietly (and temporarily) disabled the cameras, giving them enough time to open a Portal and step through. Ambrose doesn’t look up from where he’s rifling through an evidence box and wrinkling his nose at his findings.

“Ah, welcome back,” James said, “Grab a box, pull up a chair.”

“How was the airport?” Ambrose asked, peeling off the nitrile gloves into the trash can.

“Oh, you know, there were tears and Yuri was uncomfortable,” Danny said, nudging a short stack of boxes towards her desk with her foot, “The usual.” Yuri makes a face at her and grabs a couple of gloves before picking up an evidence box.

“Did you make a good impression at least?” James asked, “You know you’ll be reintroduced to them as their future son-in-law at one point.”

Yuri nearly drops the box (it’s a good thing he doesn’t because it’s from the 1970s and filled with old shit) and fixes his giggling teammates with scathing looks, before giving Danny a Look, “Really? You brought James into this?”

“What? We think you two would be cute together,” Danny said, pulling on a pair of gloves, and plucking a box with it’s paired case file from the top of her designated pile, “Sue us.”

“If I had the money I _so_ fucking would,” Yuri muttered.

“Could we _please_ concentrate on the task at hand?” Ambrose said loudly, “Thank you!”

Yuri gives Ambrose a look that’s just a tad bit grateful before starting to read through his pile of case files and comb through the corresponding evidence.

_We’ve got our work cut out for us. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumplings are my favorite thing in the whole wide world. [cue heavy breathing]
> 
> I was hoping to have this chapter up for Christmas, but _that_ didn't happen. Instead I binged entire first season of The Witcher and reflected on my terrible life choices. I hope y'all had a wonderful holiday season! See you next year (heh heh).


	6. Here's a Taco for Scale

_July 2024; London_

There was plenty of room in the third holding cell and Yuri gave a hard-enough shove to send their freshly detained crime lord through the barrier where’ll he’ll stay making nice with the other detainees until arraignment in the morning. Yuri’s ignores his pleas and threats on the way out of holding, passing the poor Exorcist currently on guard duty that has to listen to the idiotic whining. On the way back to SVU he silently prays that Ambrose hurries up with that tea and hopes its caffeinated.

James is on the phone and Yuri lets the door quietly swing shut behind him while crossing the floor to his desk. It feels like heaven to finally sit and have a rest after the chaos of this morning’s raid. He lets his body sink low in his chair and in the back of his head he can hear Lilia making criticisms about his posture.

_A warrior does not _slouch_, Yuratchka_.

He suppresses a snort and lets his head rest against the top of his chair, taking a deep breath in through his nose and enjoying the silence (tuning out James’ intermittent hums of agreement and scribbling on a notepad).

The phone on Ambrose’s desk rings from underneath a pile of forgotten paperwork. Yuri glares at the ceiling and wills for whoever it is to _go the fuck away_.

“Yuri, can you get that?” James asked, pulling the phone away from his face and covering the mouthpiece, “Thank you.”

“I literally _just_ sat down,” Yuri said. James doesn’t budge and eventually Yuri hauls himself back out of his chair so he can reach across his desk to Ambrose’s and shove the pile of paper covering the phone to the side before picking up the receiver mid-ring.

“SVU,” he grumbled.

“Plisetsky? It’s Nate from Missing Persons.” Yuri’s brain, for the life of him, is unwilling to supply him with a face to go with the voice.

“Yeah? What’s up?” Yuri rubs at his eyes.

“We, uh, found your history professor,” Nate says. It takes Yuri a moment to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about.

“Caldwell, right? The creepy old guy?” Yuri said. He glances over at James who’s long since ended his own phone call and is finishing up his report, but Yuri can tell he’s got his ears peeled. “Where’d you dig him up?” Nate makes an odd sound on the other end of the line.

“It…might be better explained in person.”

Yuri can’t help his long-suffering sigh and takes out his phone, “Alright. Where?”

Nate tells him to come to Hyde Park of all places, and Yuri exchanges a look with James before hanging up the phone, “So much for having a breather.” He’s not fucking caffeinated enough for this.

“Be careful,” James says.

“Yeah yeah,” Yuri muttered, shutting the door to SVU behind him before going to find his partner in the breakroom, just about to pour them two piping hot cups of tea. “Tea time’s canceled,” he says. Ambrose just stares at him for a second, totally nonplussed before he sets the kettle down looking completely dejected.

“What now?” he complains.

“Apparently Caldwell was found,” Yuri said and opens a Portal.

Hyde Park is usually overrun with people during the summer, but there’s not a single picnic basket or nuclear family with their dog in sight. He sees some abandoned toys and scattered paraphernalia like people had grabbed what they could and scrambled. Now, Yuri’s not the type to visit the park, especially during this time of year when it’s much too crowded and filled with people who either want to soak in the fleeting warmth before the inevitable summer storms, visit the gallery, or breathe on Diana’s memorial…but this is too weird even for him.

“Plisetsky! Bloodworth!” he looks over and sees a guy wearing a neon yellow vest from the Metropolitan Police department waving his arms to flag them down, “You guys got here quick.” He lifts the caution tape that’s been strung across the path for them both to step through.

“What’s all this about?” Ambrose asked.

“Well, uh, it’s kind of a mess,” Nate gestured for them to follow.

‘A mess’ is an understatement. There’s shattered glass on the main road that crosses the park and a detached bumper or two just still sitting on the road. Yuri can see a whole ass windshield just a few feet away and the flashing lights of the police barricade further up Carriage Drive courtesy of their agents in Scotland Yard. The stone barricade overlooking the Serpentine has a large chunk missing, and a towing crew is standing by while a witch with a water affinity works on taming the river. 

“What the fuck happened?” Yuri asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Nate replied, “We’ve already pulled the audio from dispatch, and it sounds like he lost control of the vehicle based on what the caller said, but we can’t know for sure until we get the footage from the traffic cameras.”

“Wonderful,” Yuri bit out. He spots Sara and one of her assistants carefully zipping up a body into a black bag.

“When we got here, Homicide had already pulled the body from the vehicle,” he nods to the witch visibly struggling to gather enough magic to manipulate the river, “according to Wendy he’d already drowned by the time she got to him.”

“Of course, we can’t confirm that until Sara declares TOD,” Ambrose added, and Nate nodded. Yuri made his way over to where Sara was wrapping up and she stands to greet him. 

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite detective,” she says, “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but…what are you guys doing here? I thought this was a Missing Persons or Homicide case.”

“Yeah well, it’s ours too,” Yuri said, “He was a suspect in an ongoing investigation.”

An investigation that they’ve had to put on the back burner because they can’t ignore the other cases in their jurisdiction, especially when all their leads have dried up and they’ve got other work piling on. And now they’ve got one dead suspect and one still refusing to talk.

Sara kneels to unzip the bag just enough for Yuri to see the dead guy’s face and Yuri bites back a blue streak when he sees Dr. Caldwell’s waterlogged face with his mouth still partially open like he’d been trying to gasp for air. 

“Why didn’t he use magic to get himself out?” Yuri mutters. 

“That’s a good question,” Sara sighed and straightened, “Hopefully, I’ll have more answers for you when I get him back to the lab.”

Yuri bites at his tongue and forces himself to count to ten so he doesn’t let out the scream of frustration sitting on his windpipe. He’s in professional company, dammit. He will _not_ throw a tantrum like a toddler.

“Looks like they’re struggling over there,” Ambrose comments, obviously talking about the witch from Homicide, when he comes strolling up, “Hello Sara, how are you?”

“Ambrose, always a pleasure,” Sara smiled.

Yuri glances over to where the towing crew is on standby, then to Agent Wendy whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is. He cranes his neck trying to get a better look and frowns when all he sees is a weak wave that turns into a ripple. Yuri lets out a snarl and walks over to the water’s edge.

“Move,” he snapped, “Just watching you is causing me pain.” He can see the very beginning marks of magic overuse beginning to blossom rosy pink on her forearms – later she’ll have nasty bruises that’ll take at least a few weeks to completely heal. Clearly, she’d used most of her magic to keep from drowning while playing hero to a dead guy. Admirable, but inadvisable.

Instead of fighting with the natural flow of the river to split the water so the tow team can pull it from the riverbed, he focuses all of his attention on manipulating the car. The easiest way to go about it is to start the engine remotely with his magic, so the car essentially drives itself out. Of course, he’s only ever done this when a car is dry and already on land.

He reaches for that dormant spark sitting in the engine and gives it a tug. Of course, he meets resistance with all the water flooding the engine and preventing him from working up a good current. But he grits his teeth and gives it a little more juice.

_There you are_.

He can feel the piston in the engine starting to move, albeit reluctantly.

_Now drive._

The tires struggle to gain traction on the riverbed, rolling uselessly for a good minute or two but the car finally gains a smidge of momentum and Yuri floods the engine with power to keep it going. The water at the edge of the river where they’re standing ripples and Dr. Caldwell’s previously pristine late-model Volvo comes trundling out of the river, water pouring out of the shattered windows and dripping from the wheel wells.

Yuri snatches back most of the power he used to keep the engine going and it promptly dies there on the grassy banks of the Serpentine. The towing crew are bug-eyed, looking between the engine and Yuri just standing there cracking his fingers.

“What?” he snaps when their gaze lingers just a second too long and the two men hurriedly start working on hitching the car onto the back of the truck.

“Strong work,” Ambrose said.

“Show off,” Sara teases. Yuri flips her off and walks away, passing Nate who’d been standing by watching.

“Appreciate the help,” Nate says.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Yuri scoffed, catching a glimpse of that Agent he’d pushed out of the way in his peripherals.

“If that’s all, we’ll be on our way,” Ambrose said seriously.

Yuri punches a Portal into existence and steps through, refusing to stick around for anymore niceties, then collapses into his office chair.

“Well hello to you too,” Danny muttered from her desk.

The Portal is just starting to close when Ambrose hurries through.

“I think you hurt that poor girl’s feelings,” he says, taking a seat at his desk.

“What? You want me to go back and apologize?” Yuri snorts.

“What happened at the park?” James prompted.

“Dr. Caldwell crashed his car into the Serpentine this morning,” Ambrose tells them. Their teammates sit there in silence for a beat or two.

“Well that’s unfortunate,” James murmured.

“Have they ruled out DUI?” Danny asked.

“Missing Persons and Homicide are still investigating,” Yuri answered, “so nothing’s concrete right now. The whole thing is pure bullshit if you ask me.” He goes missing for _weeks, _complete radio silence with not even a blip off of a cell phone tower only to turn up dead in a freak accident. 

“We still don’t have any evidence that he was involved with Ashworth and the clinic,” Ambrose pointed out.

“And we probably never will now that he’s a fucking corpse,” Yuri retorted.

“Well,” Danny began, her voice going higher than usual and all three of them immediately give her suspicious looks, “there is _one_ way. To gather evidence, I mean.”

“Whatever it is, it’s a ‘no’,” James immediately vetoed.

“I haven’t even said what it is yet!” Danny protested.

“I wanna hear it,” Yuri interjected.

“Thank you, Yuri,” Danny sniffed, sitting primly on the edge of her desk, “It’s nice to know someone appreciates my ideas.” Never mind that not all her ideas are good ones. “As I was saying, we can search Dr. Caldwell’s house.” James scrunches his nose.

“We don't have a warrant,” he says, “We could lose our Tags for it.”

“No one’s gonna know unless you blab,” Danny argued, “Besides, he’s been declared dead and the state won’t claim the property for a while yet while they wait for Caldwell’s heir.”

“If he even has an heir,” Ambrose said, “Which I doubt.”

“Ambrose,” James complained, “don’t encourage her. You’re supposed to be the other voice of reason here.”

“Look, I’ll go by myself to reduce the risk of getting caught, and the rest of you can have plausible deniability,” Danny said, sounding so perfectly reasonable like she’d thought this through and even made a pro versus cons list.

Yuri knows for a fact she did none of the sort. If she goes and gets caught, they’ll all go down with her regardless. And like hell he’s going to let her go into that creepy house by herself.

“Fuck that,” he said, “you’re not going alone.” Danny pouts.

“Thank you, Yuri,” James said, and gives her a ‘so there’ look.

“I’ll come with you as backup,” Yuri continued. Danny immediately lights up like Christmas came early and James lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“You two are so _troublesome_,” he complained.

“We’ll be back before it gets too late, mum,” Danny rolled her eyes and reached over to pat him on his head. James gives her a withering look.

“We’ll be on standby,” Ambrose tells the two of them, “Call if you need backup.” He gives them both a pointed glare, and they nod.

First things first, Yuri didn’t get a chance to enjoy his tea and if he doesn’t get caffeine in him right _now,_ he might actually murder someone. They hit up the shiny new Starbucks that opened just down the street from Sub-Q and Yuri settles down with a white chocolate mocha, appreciating the extra chocolate drizzle. The caffeine hitting his bloodstream is a relief and he makes a quiet happy noise.

“What do you think we’ll find?” Danny asked, picking up whipped cream on her straw and eating it.

“Creepy shit,” Yuri answered, “Maybe he liked puppets.” Danny wrinkles her nose.

“Don’t…don’t say that,” she says, “Just don’t.”

Oh hell, he probably jinxed them. He hopes to the gods they don’t find puppets in Dr. Caldwell’s house.

“He was an etymologist, right? So probably has books,” Yuri said, “A fuckton of books.”

“Hopefully incriminating books,” Danny said.

None of what they find in that house can be used in court…if this case even gets to court. At the rate they’re going, all they’re going to get is dead ends and false leads. The clinic has vanished, Dr. Ashworth remains tight-lipped, and now Dr. Caldwell is dead.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Danny said.

“I only take cash,” Yuri replied, “Five quid minimum.” Danny snorted. “Don’t you think it’s a really weird coincidence that Dr. Caldwell would go missing just days after we spoke with him? And now he’s dead.”

“I always thought it was weirdly convenient,” Danny admitted, “and now that he’s gone, we can cross off some of our working theories.”

The first one had been completely unfounded, just based on Yuri’s gut feeling and nothing else: Dr. Caldwell was the brain or part of the brains of the operation and you’ll have to pry that theory from Yuri’s cold dead fingers.

The second: Dr. Caldwell wasn’t involved at all. Again, they don’t have any tangible proof, but Yuri doesn’t believe in coincidences and a creepy control freak like that doesn’t take the fucking scenic route ever.

“This a fucking mess,” he mutters. Danny hums in agreement.

Sufficiently caffeinated, he and Danny step through a covertly opened Portal into the quiet London suburb where Dr. Caldwell used to live. Like last time, Yuri doesn’t see any of the neighborhood kids playing out, just an abandoned bike or two left on the sidewalk.

“School must not be out,” Danny commented.

“Come on, let’s make this quick,” Yuri grumbled.

There are leaves on the lawn and the grass is unkempt. Water stains from the recent thunderstorm mar the previously pristine paintjob and the car is obviously missing from the neatly paved driveway. The mailbox is nearly bursting and there are bottles of milk sitting on the porch that have probably already spoiled.

Danny makes short work of the lock on the front door and Yuri makes a face at her when she pauses to wipe her boots on the welcome mat, “What?” she says. Yuri shakes his head and rolls his eyes at her (but follows suit).

“_Lucerna_.”

The entryway has been swept completely clean. There is one pair of house slippers, one pair of trainers, and one pair of black Oxfords. Yuri notices that there is hardly any carpet, which makes sense – wooden floors are easier to clean.

“He definitely lived alone,” Danny said, “doesn’t look like he had very many visitors either.”

The living room definitely reinforces that theory: there’s only one large armchair in the whole room, sitting squarely in front of the fireplace. 

“What kind of weirdo doesn’t have a couch?” he mutters.

“The kind that doesn’t like visitors,” Danny said.

“I don’t like visitors,” Yuri says, “I still have a fucking couch.”

The room is solely decorated with classical-style oil paintings in heavy antique frames. Each one looks like it cost at least several thousand quid and they take up all the possible space on the walls. Yuri imagines that all the creepy old man did in this room was sit in his chair and stare into the fire while surrounded by thousands of two-dimensional eyes.

Okay, time to leave.

He and Danny peek into the kitchen and find nothing of interest. Of course, it’s squeaky clean and all the appliances look completely untouched, except for the fridge where there’s half of a whole roast chicken left and some produce that’s starting to go off.

“Boring,” Yuri declares. Danny agrees.

Upstairs, Dr. Caldwell’s bedroom looks like he’d tidied up before leaving for the day as usual. There’s a rectangular imprint in the rug from where he put his briefcase every single day for years and a small rug by his bedside where he’d take off his slippers every night before climbing into bed. The man was clearly on a routine like clockwork. Yuri can see it just by looking around the room. The thing that Bothers him the most though is that the bed is neatly made with the covers crisply folded down and the pillows puffed and it's _not touching any of the walls_. 

“He was definitely a psychopath,” Yuri said.

“I’m starting to think you’re right,” Danny replied.

There’s nothing decorative and the closet is unremarkable. Yuri can’t detect a secret door or hidden enchantments anywhere.

“Odd, I’d expect there to be some personal affects at least in here,” Danny said, “But, look, there’s no photos. No memorabilia, no trinkets, or anything.”

“Ambrose was probably right, then, and he has no actual family left,” Yuri said, “It doesn’t look like he was married at all and I doubt he ever had kids.”

He peeks into the bathroom – toilet, shower, soap. Boring.

“Sounds lonely,” Danny commented.

Yuri decides to go poking around the rest of the rooms. He finds another bathroom, obviously unused but clean. The second door he tries is locked.

There’s no keyhole or signs of a physical lock and Yuri really fucking wishes – not for the first time – that he’d picked up the trick to Victor’s ability to sense other magic. He doesn’t know the structure of the spell used to keep it locked and whether there’s safeguards in place for keeping Dr. Caldwell’s secrets protected from intruders.

“We could just nullify the whole lot,” Danny suggested, “but then we might end up breaking the anchor keeping the perception barrier in place.” And they’d agreed to leave the house as they found it, barrier and all.

Trying every possible counter-spell to carefully unravel the protection the professor placed on this room would take too long.

He has an idea, but he has no clue if it’ll work since he’s never actually tried it. Unlike Katsudon, he’ll need a medium and he’s not using his blood to break a damn locking spell. He burns a bit of paper and collects the ashes in his palm then carefully draws a key on the door. It’s a bit shoddy and the lines are uneven, but it looks enough like a key.

At first nothing happens, but then the ash turns bone black and the door begins to rattle in its frame. For a moment, Yuri’s concerned that he did it wrong but then the door swings wide open, bouncing off the stopper.

“Cool trick,” Danny said. (Yuri doesn’t admit that he didn’t expect for it to work.)

They both shiver as they get hit with a blast of cool air. Yuri grabs the light still floating above his head and wills it to shine a little brighter, illuminating the study. Completely neat and tidy (as expected) with bookshelves lining every wall from ceiling to floor and a large desk. 

_Now, what could you be hiding in here? _

Yuri ransacks the desk now that he has some idea of how Katsudon’s Skeleton Key works and can get the locked drawers open. Danny starts going through the binders and leather-bound organizers arranged on the shelves behind the desk.

There’s a well-worn moleskin detailing all of Dr. Caldwell’s personal transactions, neatly dated with account numbers and balances. The man obviously didn’t believe in direct deposit because he kept a goddamned check register with dates, the check numbers, the day they were deposited, and which bank location he visited.

“Jesus, talk about old-fashioned,” Yuri muttered. It’s so squeaky clean and air tight…except for later entries that are simply labeled ‘maintenance’ where he broke from his pattern and electronically wired money to an anonymous payee. Yuri vaguely remembers seeing these exact same transactions in the bank statement they’d combed through all those weeks ago but still takes out his phone and snaps a photo before flipping through the next page where the entries abruptly stop.

The notebook clearly a dead end, he rifles through other bits of paperwork. Physical paystubs addressed from the Hidden University that hadn’t been cashed yet (Yuri left those unopened), bills, a furniture catalogue, and other boring stuff. He suppresses his grumbling and puts the notebook back where he found it.

He swivels around in Caldwell’s cushy office chair to see Danny looking through a folder, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’s conjured her own light to see by, the little orb floating easily by her hands.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“Look at this,” she tilted the folder for him to see, “he has dozens of statements with the name Gerald Walman on them, addressed to a mailbox in Wimbledon.”

Yuri plucks one such statement from the folder, dated for March 2, 2023. He stares at the deposit amount of fourteen thousand pounds with a bit of disbelief. “What the hell? Where does a tenured professor get this kind of cash?”

_You know how many tacos I can buy with fourteen thousand quid? _

“Beats me,” Danny muttered. Yuri gets out his phone and snaps a photo of the statement. “And the money rolls out too, not just in. Look at these. These are all purchases.” All of them in varying amount between four-thousand and thirty-thousand pounds sterling. He was keeping track of spending and getting paid well for his work by the look of it.

“He was acting as a treasurer,” Yuri mutters, “but for who?”

“I think we’ll have to keep looking to find out,” Danny said, she sets the folder on the desk, “there’s no guarantee that we’ll be able to find a digital trail. I’ll make duplicates of anything we find that’s useful.” She pulls another leather-bound organizer from the shelf and starts flipping through it. Yuri follows her lead and pulls another from the next shelf down, carefully rifling through.

At least Dr. Caldwell’s control freak tendencies are keeping their search relatively organized. Each folder is dated, and the statements are in chronological order, grouped together by month. Yuri whistles between his teeth when he traces the folders all the way back to 2014. Somehow, he gets the feeling that there should be more, as old as Dr. Caldwell is – was – he can’t have been doing this for just the one decade.

A text in the group-chat reminds them both that they can’t spend hours going through every single piece of paperwork. They could end up spending days just going through and puzzling together what kind of business Dr. Caldwell was running.

“Yuri,” Danny says suddenly, tapping what looks like a handwritten receipt stapled to a statement from November 2021, “a bulk order for prescription medications.” It’s stapled to another printed transaction sheet which means that something happened with the original purchase. A deal gone wrong? A shipment lost? Maybe an unreliable source that took the money and never delivered. He _so_ wants to say, _I told you so_. Danny sets that folder aside then glances at her watch with a sigh.

“How much longer you think we can push it?”

“We promised before supper,” Yuri said with a toothless smile, and she rolled her eyes, then pauses and squints above his head.

“What is that?” she wondered. He doesn’t turn at first, convinced she’s fucking with him, but she doesn’t look like she’s joking. When he turns to look, his eyes snag on an imperfection in the paint on the ceiling.

“What the…?” he directs his light a little higher, “Looks like a door.”

Danny immediately climbs up on the chair and knocks on the ceiling. Yuri stares at her, “Are you expecting someone to invite you in for tea?”

“I was checking to see if there was a barrier, smartarse,” Danny said, then climbed off the chair. She snapped her fingers and there’s a soft metallic click like a mechanism being released. The little door swings upward, revealing a black hole in the ceiling and a staircase slides down with a little squeak of rusty hinges.

Yuri sends the light up first and they wait a beat or two. So far, nothing seems to happen and before Yuri can say a single thing, Danny rushes forward and ascends, sticking her head into the attic. “There’s a fuckton of filing cabinets in here,” she said, then ascended the rest of the way, her feet disappearing over the lip of the opening. Yuri doesn’t waste time following her up, and blinks when he sees that she’s right. Danny has already opened the first one and started rifling through. Yuri looks at the bookshelves – possibly the ones that the old historian couldn’t fit below – lined up against the far wall and a dusty antique armoire with a keyhole.

“Hm,” he reaches out to see if he can possibly tweak the lock and see what else that creep has been hiding and immediately snatches his hand back with a shout of pain.

“What happened?” Danny asked.

“This thing,” Yuri pointed with his good hand, “_stung_ me.”

It’s definitely got more protection on it than everything else in the house. His fingers are all tingly and numbness is starting to creep up into his arm.

_Definitely some sort of curse_, he thinks.

Danny drops what she’s doing and comes over to the armoire to investigate and Yuri karate chops her with his other hand when she reaches out to fucking touch it.

“Ow!”

“It’s obviously cursed, dumbass,” he snapped, “Don’t touch it.” She pouts and rubs her smarting fingers.

“You could’ve just yelled,” she mumbles, then fixes her hands on her hips, “On a scale of one to ten, how curious are you about the contents of this fucking thing?” he raises an eyebrow at her and she continues, “I’m not going to lie, I’m at about a twenty.”

They’d agreed to leave the house and everything in it as they found it. Of course, that was before Yuri got fucking cursed by a stupid fucking armoire. And since they can’t touch it to use the Skeleton Key, really their hand is being forced anyway.

His magic feels strangely sluggish as he gathers power in his good hand, electricity gathering into a crackling unstable mass and he fires it. The armoire completely cracks open like an egg to Yuri’s violent satisfaction. 

“A little overboard?” Danny asked.

“It hurt me first,” he argued petulantly. He hopes he didn’t completely fry the contents and picks his way through the smoking remnants.

It’s _definitely_ getting harder to move the fingers on his left hand. He can barely make a fist.

“What the hell?” Danny curses, unearthing a hella old book just as Yuri manages to kick aside a chunk and discover what looks like an Incantus.

“What the hell, indeed,” Yuri mutters, craning his neck to try and read the name on the leather-bound spine:

BONES

“It’s a recipe book,” Danny flips through hers, “’Auntie Elinore’s scrumptious apple crumble’?”

Yuri’s not listening to a single word out of Danny's mouth since his brain has come to a record-scratching stop, stuck on an increasingly frantic mantra of, _What the _actual_ fuck? _He only knows one Warlock with the last name Bones and he certainly doesn't know what the hell her family Incantus is doing in Dr. Caldwell's house. He scoops up the tome, “Time to go."

Danny – surprisingly – doesn’t argue. They’ve already pushed their luck keeping their Unit members in suspense all this time. James will definitely give them a scolding.

Danny works on creating duplicates of the organizers they’d selected as the most relevant then carefully replaces the originals where she found them. The attic door closes, Yuri carefully uses a tissue to wipe off the ash where he drew the Ward on the door, and they hastily leave the house behind.

Yuri opens a shaky Portal back to Sub-Q and they step through to see James anxiously pacing in front of Danny’s mind map. Ambrose is scrolling through his tablet, feet propped up on the desk, sipping on what smells like peppermint tea.

“Oh good, you’re back,” Ambrose says casually. James stops in the middle of pacing to give them both indignant looks.

“You two ignored my texts!” he accuses.

“We did _not_,” Danny said, “didn't you see the 'read' notification?” James rubs at his forehead.

“What is the point of being Captain of this Unit if you’re not going to listen to me?” he sighed.

“I thought this was a marriage of equals,” Yuri grunted, throwing the stolen – no, reclaimed – Incantus, on his desk and taking a seat, attempting to massage life back into his cursed hand. The tips of his fingers are starting to turn blue, you know, as they do.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” Ambrose demanded, completely derailing the conversation.

Curse his partner for being endlessly observant.

“I’m fine,” Yuri said, “just a little…mishap. They happen.”

“He touched a cursed wardrobe,” Danny supplied.

“You what?!” James near-screeched.

_Fucking traitor_, he glares at her. This is payback for (accidentally) breaking her Tamagotchi isn’t it?

Meanwhile, his partner just sighs, takes out his phone, pointedly opens his contacts, then presses ‘call’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is completely chaotic and I'm not apologizing for it. 
> 
> Okay, I am a little bit sorry. It was starting to get away from me and would've ended up being too long, so it was either post now or end up with a 10k chapter...and I have to work in a few hours heh heh. 
> 
> Happy Friday <3


	7. There's a Pun in There Somewhere

_July 2024; London_

Ambrose is a godsdamned traitor and Yuri is going to disown him immediately.

“It almost sounds like you want your arm to stay cursed,” Ambrose said.

And he said that out loud. Gods-fucking-dammit, of _all_ the times for his filter to fail him.

“Fuck off,” Yuri grumbled, cradling said arm against his middle with the Bones’ Incantus sitting heavily in his lap (he can’t exactly leave it at the office, now can he?), “I would’ve figured it out.”

“Oh sure,” Ambrose said.

Yuri would _totally_ kick him if it didn’t mean potentially causing his partner to lose control of the car. He settles for glaring out the window all the way back to his apartment where Katsudon is probably already waiting.

He can understand why Ambrose called him – Yuuri is the best godsdamned cursebreaker in Europe (even if that infuriatingly humble motherfucker denies it to the ends of the earth), but it doesn’t mean Yuri’s got to fucking like it. Goddamn, it’s _twice_ now that he’s had to ask Katsudon for help in the span of six short fucking weeks and he _knows_ that the older Exorcist is insanely busy between HUNTER and his part-time gig with the goons in research and development.

Ambrose parks the car and Yuri growls an, “I’m fine,” when Ambrose offers to help. One of his arms is dead, but that doesn't mean he’s a fucking invalid. He tucks the Incantus under his good arm, his left hanging like an infuriating dead weight at his side and bumps the car door shut with his hip before stomping all the way up to his apartment.

He’s surprised that there’s nobody waiting when he gets to his door. He lets the Incantus fall onto the kitchen table with a dusty thump, then stalks into the living area to flop on the couch, kicking off his shoes whilst grumbling in Russian.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Ambrose said, nudging the door shut. 

“Fine, whatever,” Yuri replied, slouching into the cushions and glaring at his left arm – the limb is completely numb and totally useless now. He can’t wiggle his fingers and he can’t cast with his left hand. His magic is being uncooperative in general, otherwise he would’ve used a Portal to get home instead of having Ambrose drive him. Of course, no magic to Portal means he can’t escape when the door is kicked in.

“Oh Yuuuuriiii!”

_Fuck. My. Life_.

He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that Katsudon didn’t bring the entire fucking peanut gallery with him. He reopens them to glare at Mila who’s standing above him with her hands planted on her hips and a large grin on her face.

“Look at you,” she squealed, reaching out and pinching his cheeks before he can get the chance to make a scathing comment about her new side-shave.

“Get off you hag!” he complained, trying to squirm away. Gods, how is she so _strong?_

“Shame on you for not visiting more often,” Mila said, pinching harder, “Look at how tall you’ve gotten.”

“We always did say he would grow up fast,” Georgi commented.

“Like a goddamn weed,” Mila turns his face from side to side, “Gods, you’re so skinny. I knew English food would be bad for you.”

“Mila, perhaps you should let him go now,” Katsudon said gently.

“Oh alright,” Mila said, and Yuri rubbed at his face with his good hand, giving her the stink eye. And she wonders why he’d stayed away for three years. Jesus Christ he’ll be lucky if his face doesn’t bruise. “Your hair’s gotten longer too,” she comments, giving a lock of his hair a little tug, “I should braid it.”

“The hell you will,” he spat, “Just because you shaved half of your fucking head-“ he’s sure as fuck not going to tell her that it makes her look kinda cool and he may or may not be wondering if he’d look just as cool if he did the same. 

“Ah, Yura, I see you’re still as crabby as the last time we spoke,” Victor sighed fondly.

“And I see your forehead’s gotten even bigger,” Yuri replied. Victor gasped and clutched his chest as if he were mortally wounded.

Mila snickered, “Still a feisty kitten.” and plopped herself on the couch, her fingers starting to play with Yuri’s hair. He gives her the stink eye, knowing she purposefully sat on the side with his bad arm so he couldn’t push her away.

“Um,” Ambrose interjected, finally emerging from the kitchen, “would anyone like some tea?”

Victor – like the spazz he is – is immediately distracted, “Ambrose! Good to see you! How’s your wife?” 

Katsudon sighs and takes a seat on the coffee table in front of Yuri, “I’m sorry about them. They insisted on coming when they heard you were injured.”

“We were concerned,” Mila said, “we wanted to check on our cute little intern.”

“I’m fine,” Yuri grumbled, “it’s not like I’m dying.”

“Still, that’s a pretty nasty curse you’ve got,” Katsudon said, carefully picking up Yuri’s dead arm. He’s frowning, which isn’t a good sign.

“Can you fix it?” Yuri asked, trying not to let his nervousness show.

“I can break the curse,” he answered, “but it’ll take me a bit of time. I’m glad you didn’t wait to call me.”

“Not like I had much of a choice,” Yuri grumbled, directing a nasty look in Ambrose’s general direction (“Yuri’s gone and been irresponsible and now I need you to fix him.”). Fucking traitor.

“Is it painful?” Yuuri asked, “You’re not moving it.”

“Because I _can’t_,” Yuri said, “I can’t feel anything.”

“Interesting,” Yuuri hummed. Mila pinches his bicep.

“Can you feel this?” she asked.

“Nope,” he said.

“How about this?” she bends his finger back enough where if he could feel his left hand it would hurt.

“No, now quit it.”

“So, what’s the verdict, my love?” Victor calls from the kitchen where he’s playing catch up with Ambrose (the fucking _traitor_), “Is it reparable?” Yuri rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” Yuuri replied, “but it’ll be awhile.”

“See? I’m fine,” Yuri snapped, “Now go home. It’ll be hard enough getting the smell of your weirdness out of my couch.”

“Aw, don’t be like that Yura,” Mila said, her fingers starting to plait his hair, “We were just concerned is all.”

“Now you can be _un_-concerned,” Yuri said, craning his neck to try and get away but Mila just scoots closer and continues to braid, “Katsudon said he can fix me.”

“How could we not be concerned?” Mila said, “Our little intern, leaving the nest.” 

Georgi’s phone rings somewhere in the background but Yuri’s too busy glowering at Mila.

“I’m not a child,” he says.

“Warlock culture says differently, kitten,” Mila boops his nose.

Meanwhile, Victor and The Traitor are still playing catch up while sipping tea like they’re besties even though they’ve probably only met twice and spoken on the phone five times. Ambrose is obviously telling Victor about his wife, based on the gross soppy look he's got all over his face. 

Yuri’s not sure how he ended up surrounded by all these sappy weirdos but he’s starting to wonder if this is actually his life now.

_Gag me with a godsdamn spoon-_

Georgi emerges from his phone call, “That was Yakov,” he explains, “he said he wants us back at the briefing.”

Victor pulls a face, “Of course he did.”

“You _left_ in the middle of a godsdamned _briefing?_” Yuri demanded. He doesn’t know why he’s asking because _of course_ they did. Team Victor assumes it’s a rhetorical question anyway because nobody bothers to answer him.

“Well,” Mila sighed, “duty calls, I guess.” She gives Yuri a parting pat on the head before hauling herself off the couch. Victor comes over to exchange a parting smooch with Katsudon.

“You’ll join us when you’re finished, yes?”

“Of course,” Yuuri smiled. Yuri retches loudly at the two of them. How _one_ person, let alone two, could be so disgustingly happy boggles his mind. He’s three-percent sure they’re on some sort of drug, probably a type of hallucinogen.

Victor gouges a Portal into existence and his apartment is _finally_ quiet again.

“Well, they’re a lively bunch, aren’t they?” Ambrose said, cradling a warm mug in his hands.

“You fucker, where’s mine?” Yuri asked.

“No tea for you,” Ambrose said, “it’s your punishment for being irresponsible.” Yuri glared at him.

Katsudon’s Wards circle his dead arm, untangling what he thought was horrible bruising into a half-legible script. His arm is still black and blue all the way up to his shoulder, but now it looks more like a sloppily done tattoo.

“So, what did you touch?” Yuuri asked, “The conditions of this curse are very specific.”

“An old wardrobe,” Yuri answered.

“Huh,” Yuuri murmured.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the case we’re still working on,” Ambrose said, “We consulted you a few weeks ago.”

“That case is still open?” Yuuri asked, his hands don’t stop working, carefully picking apart the curse starting at Yuri’s shoulder.

“The culprit has been very good at covering their tracks,” Ambrose sighed, “One of our suspects was found dead this morning. We had a suspicion there was foul play, so Yuri and another member of our Unit looked through his things for evidence.”

“I suspect you found _something_,” Yuuri said, “otherwise you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Yuri hesitates to say anything else, exchanging a look with Ambrose. Yuuri's not an outsider, but the case is still ongoing, and he may be obligated to report them if he figures out that they went poking around without a warrant. 

“We found Jade’s family Incantus,” Yuri told him. Yuuri’s surprise is brief – his hands pause for just a second – but he quickly composes himself and goes back to work, his frown more pronounced over the rim of his glasses. “I don’t think it was related to the piles of evidence Danny and I found,” Yuri continued, “but, still, I took it so I could give it back to her.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing,” Yuuri told him, “I’ve known Jade-_sensei_ for years, but she’s never once mentioned her family.”

Usually, when people don’t talk about their family it’s for a reason. Yuri wonders what Jade’s could be.

“I’ve never heard of a noble family by the name of Bones,” Yuri says.

“I haven’t either,” Yuuri replies, “but I don’t know much about the magical aristocracy. I could ask Georgi.”

Sometimes he forgets that crybaby is a fucking aristocrat (even though he’s been practically disinherited for becoming a medical examiner instead of a doctor or a nurse like the rest of his family). Besides, the last thing he needs is another fucking mystery. He’s too busy trying to solve the first one.

“Do you think she’d be grateful if I gave it back to her?” Yuri half-joked.

“I’m not sure,” Yuuri admitted, “You could certainly try.”

“I wanna know why that creepy old fart had it,” he muttered.

“He was a historian,” Ambrose said, “maybe he thought he was collecting an important part of history?”

“Did you not hear me when I said there are no prominent magical families with the name of Bones?” Yuri demanded.

“Maybe there were,” Ambrose countered smoothly, “I’m not a Warlock or a witch, but even I know that sometimes people get erased from history.”

“You have a point,” Yuuri agreed, “sometimes there are stories the magical world doesn’t want to keep.” 

Sensation is slowly starting to return to his arm now, the bruising at the top of his shoulder has faded and left clear pale skin.

“What do you think we should do then?” Ambrose asked.

“Get to know the thief better,” Yuuri answered, “If he had friends, coworkers, or associates, talk to them. Get a better idea of who he was and, maybe, they can give you answers.”

Yuri and Ambrose exchange another brief look. Of course, now that they know the old man was most likely in league with the people running the clinic and there’s only one associate of Dr. Caldwell’s that could potentially give them those answers, but she’s made it quite clear that she’s not willing to talk.

It takes at least another hour for Katsudon to completely break the curse. Yuri’s got an odd pins-and-needles sensation throughout his hand and he flexes his fingers. Gods, it feels so good to be able to make a fist again. Electricity weakly crackles along his palm and he breathes a low sigh.

“There,” Katsudon smiles, “good as new.”

“Thanks,” Yuri mutters because he still has _some_ manners.

“Of course, Yuri,” the Hunter stands up, rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles, “I better be getting back to the others. They’re probably waiting on me.”

“Thank you,” Ambrose said, “really. I appreciate it.”

“It was no trouble,” Katsudon replied, “Yuri’s family after all.”

The plasma in Yuri’s palm abruptly peters out and Katsudon disappears through a Portal before Yuri can yell at him to _take it back dammit_. For a moment, Yuri sits in the silence, still holding his left wrist and biting on his tongue.

“How’s your arm?” Ambrose asked.

“Good as new,” Yuri replied tightly, giving his fingers another wiggle before he stands and starts to stretch. As comfortable as his couch is, his ass started to go a little numb from having to sit still for so long. 

“Take tomorrow off,” Ambrose told him.

“Why?” Yuri demanded, “I’m all fixed now-“

“Give your body time to recover,” Ambrose insisted, red eyes flinty, “It’s been a long week. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you aren’t sleeping.”

He recognizes that look in Ambrose’s eyes and he knows that there’s no arguing with him on this. Ambrose takes his silence for acquiescence, picking up his keys and seeing himself out. Yuri glares after him before picking up Ambrose’s abandoned mug, left sitting on the table, and blindly throws it. It shatters somewhere and Yuri stands in the middle of the dining area, struggling to breathe around the knot of anger in his throat. His magic crackles underneath his skin, errant sparks zapping along his fingers.

His breath escapes him in a whoosh, and he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’s not sure what pissed him off more: Katsudon’s total bullshit comment or Ambrose thinking he’s a fucking china doll.

He takes a shower when he gets his magic back under control and collapses into bed. It takes him too long to fall asleep and when he does it’s fitful and plagued by old nightmares. Eventually, he wakes up and doesn’t go back to sleep. He lays there, tangled up in his sheets and staring at the fluorescent numbers on his clock as they tick closer to five in the morning.

His mind wanders to the Incantus sitting completely innocuous – and a bit dusty – on his table, and the name carved into the binding.

_Maybe it isn’t even hers? Maybe it’s a mistake? _

_Stupid_, he berates himself. All the Warlocks he’s met – half-blood or otherwise – and he’s never met another with the name.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t other Bones’s in the world. Far from it. Of course, now that the doubt is there it won’t stop bugging him. He could either take it to her and ask, or he could open the cover and look at the family tree inside.

He sighs and looks back at his clock, the time glowing in red. Mind made up, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and shoves his feet into his boots. He grabs the Incantus from the kitchen table and opens a Portal.

The neighborhood is quiet and dark when he steps through and Jade’s porch is softly lit, casting her toxic garden into eerie silhouette. He can just make out the shadow of the Purple Monstrosity, nestled next to the porch and waiting for unsuspecting guests to walk by so it can release its hallucinogenic spores. The gate swings open when he comes near, and he quickly marches up the short garden path and up the porch steps. As usual, he can hear music playing when he reaches the front door.

_…singing Al Green in your car _ _heading to a party, _ _and the night air feels alive…_

He follows the sound of dishes clinking and finds his mentor in the kitchen drying the plates and letting them float off to stack themselves neatly in the cupboard. Yuri glances first to the speaker on the table playing the music, then to the plates violently dunking themselves into the sink full of clean water to rinse themselves after being enthusiastically scrubbed clean by the sponge.

_I feel like that that’s somehow subliminal_, he thinks. Meanwhile, the music continues to play.

_…feeling dazed and I can’t get him out…_

“You really should call first,” Jade tells him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replies and takes a seat at the table, setting down the book, "and I figured you'd still be awake anyway."

She sighs but her hands keep moving until all the plates are dry and put away.

“Whatcha got there?” she asked, “It’s not one of mine is it?”

He curses his impulsiveness, suddenly overwhelmed with the thought that this may have been a bad idea after all but it’s too late to turn back. He was too chicken to read it, so here he is. Yuri sticks with the honest approach because that always works out somehow.

“I’m not sure,” he says. She turns to give him an odd look, slinging the dish towel over her shoulder. Recognition flits across her face when she sees the Incantus, then resignation.

“After all this time, hm?” she said, “Where’d you find it?”

“Some old man’s house,” he answered, “So…wait. It _is_ yours?”

“Gods, I’m not drunk enough for this,” she muttered. Two glasses plinked themselves down onto the counter while she dug a bottle out of her stash.

She sets a glass with three fingers of bright purple liquor in front of him.

“Um, what is this?” he asked. It’s obviously faerie-made and it smells like fire whiskey, but it tastes like – he takes a sip – strawberry daiquiri? His senses are confused. He sets the glass down, quietly smacking his lips.

“Foxwine,” she said, “if you don’t want it, I’ll drink it. I don’t care.”

Of all the reactions, this was _not_ the one he was expecting to get. He stares at her, watching his mentor have a silent breakdown.

“This fucking book,” she finally says, “has caused more trouble than any book has a right to.”

_ Yeah, definitely hers_. There’s history there but based on how quick she pulled out the bottle of Fae booze, he’s not about to touch that.

“Well, that’s the first of my questions answered,” Yuri muttered, “now to find out why it was in Dr. Caldwell’s house.” 

“Tell me about him,” Jade said, sipping her drink. Yuri gives her the CliffsNotes version: creepy Dr. Caldwell, old as shit, unremarkable Earth witch who taught history at the Hidden University.

“We think he was a fence for a clandestine trafficking operation,” Yuri tells her, “we found records of bulk pharmaceutical purchases. Detailed records.”

“Teaching doesn’t pay very well these days,” Jade shrugged a shoulder.

“Anyway, he’s dead,” Yuri said, glaring into his wine, “and our one other suspect is refusing to talk. Our leads have dried up and this whole thing is fucking bullshit.”

“Gotta work with what you have,” Jade replied.

“We can’t work with nothing,” Yuri snapped.

“You have _something_,” Jade rebutted, “All you have to do is make your living suspect _talk_. I’ll leave the creative process to you.” she drains her glass then refills it, quietly cursing. Yuri doesn’t dwell on how morbid the whole ‘living suspect’ part of that comment was and takes a sip of his own drink because what the hell Ambrose is giving him a day off anyway. He’ll work up a decent buzz in no time if he goes at the same rate as the Hunter sitting next to him.

“Anyway,” Yuri said, “I don’t think this,” he gestured to the Incantus, “is related to the evidence we found in his house. The damn thing was locked in a cursed wardrobe anyway.” she raises an eyebrow. “Don’t ask.”

“Awfully naïve of you to think that,” Jade said dryly, “A pity, since your jadedness is the one trait that makes you a decent detective.”

He makes a face at her though he’s about eighty percent sure that was a compliment.

“My family had old-fashioned ideas about magic. There was no such thing as Light and Dark, just skill. Back then the GAP hadn’t been written yet, but there were still taboos.”

“Family like that, must’ve had a reputation,” Yuri said. Yet, he still can’t recall any mention of them in the books on magical history he’s read.

“You don’t say,” Jade said, her sarcasm reaching critical levels, “My point is: nobody who’s ever had possession of this Incantus keeps it as an ornamental item. There’re generations of forbidden techniques, dangerous experimental magic documented in this book. Your dead guy was probably into more shady shit than just fencing benzos.”

He feels minutely better about not reading the book now. Jade looks about as tired as he feels, and Yuri rubs his eyes.

“Gods,” he croaks, “I keep getting more questions than answers.”

“Here,” she nudges his glass a little closer, “Finish your drink, then you should go home and get some sleep.” 

He should absolutely not finish the drink, but it’s deliciously sweet and it goes down smooth. He’s got a pleasant buzz going by the time he reaches the bottom of the glass. Jade’s had two glasses already and barely looks affected by the potency of the booze.

“For what it’s worth,” she says after a while of just drinking with her playlist quietly going in the background, “I’m glad you found it.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“This way I can keep it from being abused,” she says.

It’s a loaded statement that definitely does not need to be unpacked right now and suddenly things are a tad awkward, so Yuri changes the subject. He doesn’t know when the word vomit actually starts but he can’t get it to stop.

“It’s so stupid,” Yuri complains, “we don’t even know each other, and she thinks he and I will fall into each other’s arms like one of those stupid romcoms.”

“Tell her it makes you uncomfortable and ask her to stop,” Jade says, pouring herself a little bit more wine. He goes to do the same, but she moves the bottle out of his reach. “I don’t think so,” she says, “you’ll ruin your buzz.” He glares at her.

“I guess you would know,” he grumbles.

“I would,” she said, “Besides, this is my good stuff.” She replaces the cork and the bottle picks itself up off the table to put itself away. “Can’t have us drinking it all in one night.”

“Ugh,” he puts his head down on the table. He’s come to terms with the fact that he’ll be married to this job. Outsider relationships with Exorcists rarely last simply because there’s no time for all that romance bullshit. He figures it’s why his parents hooked up – same career, close proximity, blah blah blah.

“If that’s the way you want to live your life,” Jade says, and he freezes because he _said that out loud_.

Godsdamn it, what is up with his filter tonight?

He hears her get up and the sound of the faucet, looking up when she sets a cup of water down in front of him.

“You don’t have to be married to this job,” Jade continues, re-taking her seat at the table, “you have options.”

“Yeah? Tell me, what was your longest relationship?” he demanded.

“Hm…about three years,” she said, “but, pretty sure that doesn’t count. It only ended because he turned out to be kind of an asshole.”

“What happened?” he blurts. She shrugs a shoulder.

“He was already engaged when he met me,” she said, “some princely obligation or whatever. But still, a long time to lead someone on.”

“That’s so shitty,” he says.

“It was a long time ago,” she sighed, “but, you live and you learn. Finish your water.”

Pseudo heart to heart clearly over, he drinks said water and stands to leave.

It takes him a solid five minutes to figure out how to wrangle a Portal open and back in his apartment the first rays of early morning sunshine are starting to filter through the blinds, breaking up the gloom a little bit. He rubs a hand over his face and pads off to bed. This time sleep comes a little bit easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuri fighting the Found Family Trope tooth and nail while slowly being dragged in will never not be amusing to me. 
> 
> G.A.P - Guidelines for Acceptable Practices or "Gap" laws, pretty self-explanatory. Embedded in the IMC's standardized Code of International Law, the GAP outlines which practices require specific licensing and which ones are absolutely forbidden. Punishments range in severity depending on the violation. 
> 
> I think I've said this on my tumblr post regarding the differences between witches and Warlocks, but Incanti are living documents and are an important part of a Warlock family's history so each one has a family tree. It's a serious breach in etiquette to read another's Incantus without permission. 
> 
> Have a wonderful week y'all <3
> 
> Song credits: Summer Nights - Siamés


	8. You Can't Solve Your Problems With Sad Flute Music

_August 2024; District 7 Remand Center – Nottingham_

Thinking about just how long it took for their request to interview a prisoner to get approved really pisses Yuri off. If they were members of HUNTER none of the stuffed shirts running the place would dare to make them wait three weeks and then give them a shitty time slot at the very last minute.

He glares into the middle distance while he suffers through the pat down, having removed his belt, jacket, shoes, and even his phone from his person. His Tags are checked for authenticity and then he’s waved through to the next checkpoint where he’s scanned for hidden enchantments.

James is waiting for him by the desk outside the checkpoint and hands Yuri his visitor’s badge, “I went ahead and signed us in.”

“Oh goodie,” Yuri deadpans and takes the offered lanyard.

Because Dr. Ashworth is still a suspect in an ongoing investigation, they’re allowed one of the more private interview rooms instead of the open visitation center where inmates can play board games and cards with their families.

The two of them take a seat at the table in the middle of the room, and James pulls out his notepad. Yuri rolls his eyes but keeps his comments to himself. The sound of the visitor’s door being remotely locked behind them cues James to take out his pen and he clicks it, prepared to take notes while the door on the opposite end quietly opens.

Dr. Ashworth looks like she’s aged considerably since the last time Yuri saw her. There’s more gray in her hair and the frown lines around her mouth have become valleys. Her shoulders are squared like she’s about to face the firing squad and there’s an emptiness in her brown eyes that wasn’t there before. Clearly, prison life hasn’t been all that good to her.

“Please, sit,” James gestures to the chair opposite to them and she looks warily at the two of them before taking a seat, her eyes dart to the corners of the room behind Yuri and James – places where cameras would normally be fixed, but she doesn’t appear to be appeased. 

She hasn’t been bound with cuffs of any kind and Yuri makes a note to report that. Just because she was a mundane roped into committing a magical crime doesn’t mean the magic practitioners on staff here should underestimate her.

“How have you been?” James continued, “I hear the food isn’t all that great, but take what you can get I suppose.”

There’s noticeable disdain in her expression now and Yuri rolls his eyes before sitting up and leaning forwards to rest his elbows on the table, “Hi. Remember me?” She gives him a blank stare. “Yeah, I didn’t think so, considering I knocked you unconscious.”

“How?” she asked, “I know you didn’t open the door. It has a bad hinge, makes it impossible to sneak in.”

Yuri gives her a wide close-lipped smile.

“How about this,” James starts, “you give us answers and we’ll do the same. Sound fair?”

Dr. Ashworth narrows her eyes, “Yeah. I’m not falling for that.”

“You’re not in the least bit curious?” James cajoled, “Scientist like you, wants to discover everything there is.”

She looks away, her jaw working.

Okay, time to play hard ball before he actually reaches over this table and punches her in the godsdamned face.

“What are you so afraid of?” Yuri said.

“Probably more accurate to ask ‘who’,” James muttered. Yuri ignores him.

“We can help you,” Yuri says, “if it’s protection you want, we have it.” Her eyes dart down to his hand curled up on the table, to the minute spark of electricity that dances over his knuckles before vanishing. Her eyes go wide and her breathing shallows out for a moment. “We can give you a new identity, hide you.”

He’s got her. There’s a tentative hope there, behind the terror and they wait in tenuous silence.

“I don’t know a lot,” she says quietly, like she’s afraid they’ll be overheard, “I was hired as a hospitalist.”

“Hired by who?” James asked.

“They called themselves the Hope Health Network,” Dr. Ashworth answered, then scoffed, “I thought it was a scam at first, but the money and the facility, well, they seemed legitimate. After the debacle with BGM, I was in serious financial deficit. As soon as they showed me a contract, I didn’t hesitate. It was easy money: watch the patients, keep them healthy and calm.”

Hence the plethora of anti-anxiety medications and sedatives.

“How long did you work there?” Yuri asked.

“Fourteen months-ish?” she says, “My hours were regular for the most part, except when a patient had just completed treatment and needed to be more closely monitored.”

“Treatment?” Yuri and James blurted.

“Chemotherapy,” Ashworth said, “it’s prone to weakening a patient’s immune system. They’re more fatigued after. The recovery in between treatment can be brutal. Literally flooding the body with toxin to kill fast-replicating cells.”

“How many died after treatment?” Yuri asked. Ashworth looks uncomfortable at the question.

“Too many,” she says hoarsely, “You can imagine my surprise when I woke up in a cell. I thought it was all legitimate. The study, the…the patients.”

Holy _shit_.

“I mostly worked the overnights,” she said, “with less nursing staff they needed a vigilant doctor. Of course, there were times when I couldn’t save a patient. I was always told the medical examiner would take care of everything in the morning.”

James is furiously scribbling in his notepad and Yuri can only sit there and listen in horror. Either this woman had purposefully kept the wool over her eyes for a year or they’d gone to extreme lengths to keep her ignorant and quiet.

“Once, a patient,” she continues, swallowing dryly, “there was a patient that was in so much pain. I couldn’t stand it. Watching him suffer…” She covers her eyes, her fingers interlocked over the bridge of her nose, “I kept pushing the morphine. I kept going until he OD’d and…god, I thought he was going to kill me for it.”

_He? _

“Admin was always upset when a patient died, but…but this time, I’d…he begged for help and that’s my job right? To help?” her voice cracks, “’What’s the point of all this?’ I’d said, ‘If it doesn’t improve their quality of life?’,” she huffs a bitter little laugh, “He didn’t like that.”

“Was this him?” Yuri conjures a photo and lays it down on the table. She takes her hands off her eyes, revealing how red-rimmed and bloodshot they were.

“No,” she says hoarsely, shaking her head. Yuri conjures a box of tissues and sets it in front of her. She loudly blows her nose.

“But you recognize him,” James said. The doctor nodded tiredly.

“Yeah, I remember him. I’d see him in the pharmacy sometimes, taking inventory.” No doubt tallying up what they needed for the next order. Yuri wants to crow with victory because he _fucking knew it_. He’s _so_ going to rub this in James’s face later. 

“His name was Dr. Gerard Caldwell, Ph.D,” James said, “He was a history professor at a university in London, not a pharmacist and he was found dead a few weeks ago. Crashed his car into the Serpentine.”

After some digging, they’d found a death certificate attached to the name Gerald Walman dated for 2012. His identification number – for some _unfathomable_ reason – hadn’t been discontinued when he’d been declared dead after a heart attack twelve years ago. Dr. Caldwell’s cause of death was, of course, drowning. His autopsy report had been otherwise unremarkable (much to Yuri’s added frustration).

“Oh,” Dr. Ashworth said dumbly, blinking owlishly and staring blankly between them. Yuri thinks she’s just now beginning to grasp just how bad the mess she’s in really is.

“But he wasn’t the one who threatened you,” James continued, “some other man did.”

“Y-yes,” she nods.

“Did you ever get his name?” James asked, “Even a description of him would help.”

“He didn’t wear a badge,” she says slowly, “Someone called him Zwei? Zweig? Dunno, it sounded German.” Thinking about him clearly makes her uncomfortable.

“You’re a smart lady,” Yuri said, “Clearly you’d started to realize something was off, and you confronted him about it. But he threatened you, and I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that it didn’t have anything to do with your financial situation.” _Gods, I sound like Victor_. Yuri makes a mental note to punch him the next time he sees him.

She goes alarmingly pale at that and her twitchiness makes a vengeful comeback, “He…I don’t know how he did it…h-he made me _see_ things. I c-couldn’t s-stop. It was like…it was like living in a _nightmare_.” The woman starts having an actual panic attack in front of them and Yuri has no idea what to fucking do. She screeches when James reaches out and attempts to comfort her, recoiling from any touch.

He’s seen Katsudon have an attack once, but it didn’t look like this – when Katsudon’s overwhelmed by his anxiety he completely shuts down, like he’s a living vegetable. This? This is a whole other level.

“_Intervigilium_.” It’s vaguely alarming to see her eyes roll back and she collapses into a dead sleep on top of the table.

“Jesus Christ, Yuri,” James swore.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you _want_ her to keep screeching like a pterodactyl?” Yuri snapped, “I didn’t think so.” Still, he mutters the counterspell and waits for it to take effect.

James sighed and rubbed his forehead. The guard opens the door – sees the inmate passed out on the table and the two Exorcists looking faintly annoyed and says, “Um…”

“Give her a second,” Yuri says.

Dr. Ashworth is a bit disoriented when she wakes up and the guard levels the two Exorcists with suspicious looks then closes the door. 

“Er…apologies,” James says awkwardly, “Yuri didn’t know how else to calm you down.”

“I don’t keep anti-anxiety meds on my person,” Yuri deadpans.

They can see how tired she looks, and the information she’s given them already has answered more than a few questions. Dr. Ashworth heaves a sigh, her face even more drawn and pale than before the interview started. They give her a moment to get her bearings, James making a few annotations to what he’s already written to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything.

“You said you could help me,” she finally says, “but I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Well, It would take time, but-“ James began.

“You’re telling me I was part of an _illegal_ research project,” she snapped, “whether I knew or not, I aided and abetted in the killing of dozens.” Gods, that’s a lot of bodies. A lot of people gone missing. Where do you dump them all? The fact that they’ve only discovered the three thus far is not a good sign. “There is no way the state would let you release me to witness protection, not after all I’ve done.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Otabek survived,” Yuri said. It takes her a moment to realize what the hell he’s talking about, but she doesn’t look all that comforted. Yuri knows for a fact that Mr. Champion is still kicking – and even on the up and up – because Danny had excitedly shown him the statement he’d released to the press last week.

Dr. Ashworth laughs bitterly, “Survived so he can suffer more later, I’m sure.”

Yuri and James exchange a look.

“Are we done?” she asked, “I’m tired.”

“Yes,” James said, “Thank you. We’ll be in touch again.”

She doesn’t look like she’s looking forward to it. She stands, knocks on the door leading back out into the prison and the guard promptly opens it to escort her out.

Yuri can feel a headache building behind his eyes but that’s probably because he didn’t even get a chance to have his coffee.

“Come on,” James said, “Best be getting back to the others.”

They have to pass through another checkpoint before Yuri can open a Portal back to the office and they step through just as Ambrose and Danny are making their weary re-entrance through the office door. Danny looks like she got into a fight with a weed whacker and Ambrose –

“Is that _blood_?” Yuri demands. There’s a slowly fading bruise on Ambrose’s cheek, some nasty scrapes on his knuckles are scabbing over, and there is most definitely something ominously dark and sticky in his hair and smeared on his department issued jacket. James levels an unimpressed look at the two of them, his mouth fixed in a line that indicates he has a million things to say and none of them are good.

“Why are you looking at me?” Danny asked, “_I _didn’t start it.”

“Hm, debatable,” Ambrose said. Danny gapes at him, totally offended.

“You wanker,” she accused.

James sighs and rubs his eyes while Danny and Ambrose devolve into arguing about whose fault it actually was that the meeting went to shit. James had been the original point man for easing tensions between a local faerie clan and a werewolf gang over the death of a changeling. Obviously, leaving Ambrose and Danny to handle it hadn’t gone smoothly.

“How about,” James says loudly, “you’re both on my shit list and we call it a day, yeah? I’ll make reparations in the morning. Danny, go get cleaned up, there’s grass in your hair.”

Danny sulks at him but still obediently turns and walks through a freshly made Portal. Ambrose happily extricates himself from the room to go wash the blood off his hand and out of his hair. Yuri, meanwhile, sinks into his desk chair while James grumbles in Xhosa all the way back to his desk.

Yuri watches him from his peripherals, lazily leaning back in his chair and then James gives him a Look then sighs, “Whatever you’re going to say, just say it.”

“I fucking told you so,” Yuri sang.

“Oh gods, here we go,” James muttered, “Go on, then, get it out of your system.”

“You _doubted_ me,” Yuri continued, “but I was right.”

“Yes,” James sighed, “and I’m sorry.”

Yuri turns his head towards the Captain and tucks his hair behind his ear so he can hear better.

“I’m sorry,” James repeats a little louder, “I’ll admit, I should have more faith in you. You’ve been part of this team for a while now. Shutting down your theories isn’t fair to you or your track record.”

“Hmph,” Yuri sniffs and settles back in his chair, satisfied, “I know I haven’t been an Exorcist since the days of the dinosaurs like you, but I work my ass off.”

“I always assumed your work ethic was driven by your motivation to become a Hunter,” James said.

“Yeah, well,” Yuri glares at the wall, “maybe you shouldn’t assume.”

Ambrose comes back looking like he stuck his head in the sink, but at least all the blood in his hair is gone. The collar of his t-shirt is completely soaked through and there's a little trail of droplets behind him. 

"You're making a mess," Yuri said, and blasted him with hot air. 

“Thanks,” Ambrose deadpans, his dark hair wildly sticking up, and looks pointedly at the stack of folders that had been disrupted by Yuri’s spell.

“Don’t mention it,” Yuri says sweetly.

Ten minutes later, Danny emerges from a Portal, clearly freshly showered, “Hey fam. What’d I miss?”

“Oh nothing,” Ambrose muttered, still trying to reorganize his case files, “just Yuri making my life harder than it needs to be, as usual.”

“Fine, next time you can sit in your wet clothes for the rest of the day,” Yuri said.

“Is that why you look like you just came out of a wind tunnel?” Danny pokes Ambrose’s hair, snickering.

“If you two are quite done having a laugh,” James said, “I want you to tell me what the hell happened at the meeting.”

They give him the CliffsNotes version: everything had been going fine, a truce was agreed upon, and then the drinks came out and one of the werewolves started giving Ambrose shit.

“We were going to leave,” Danny said, “remove ourselves from the situation, but they kept talking and I, er, got angry.”

“What did you do?” James sighed.

“She cursed them,” Ambrose deadpanned.

“Just an itty bitty one,” Danny holds up her fingers, “teeny tiny. Would wear off in a day.”

“But they threw the first punch, literally speaking,” Ambrose said, “we were only defending ourselves.”

James looks a bit more appeased, “I’ll still have to talk to them in the morning, make sure that we don’t wake up to a gang war.”

“So, that was our day,” Danny says cheerfully, “How was yours?”

“Probably not much better than ours, I’m assuming,” Ambrose mutters, clearly recalling how the last interview with Dr. Ashworth went.

The surprise on their faces when James gives them his notes is almost comical. Clearly, their expectations had been just as low as Yuri’s.

“So, they take advantage of a mundane woman in dire straits,” Ambrose muses aloud, “to use her for her skills in medicine. And she had no idea?”

“She thought it was a cancer clinic,” Yuri says, “Super fucked up.”

“And they most likely weren’t giving their victims chemo either,” Ambrose says darkly.

Yuri immediately thinks of the ritual space he saw, and the odd symbols drawn so often on the floor that even layers of floor wax couldn’t cover the spaces where they’d gone. They still have no idea what the full translation of those markings is or what the ‘Hope Health Network’ hopes to achieve. He thinks of all the bodies they haven’t found, all the victims that had been taken away and tortured for gods know how long.

“There haven’t been many missing persons reported in the last eight weeks,” Danny says, flipping over the blank white board to reveal her complex mind map on the other side, still covered in colorful post-it notes, maps, and stickers, “a teenage runaway or two, but no one fit and sound of mind. So, either they’ve moved shop or they’re laying low.”

They know the underground hospital has completely disappeared after their attempt to go back and collect more evidence. The building the HHN was using as a façade is still standing with a huge ‘for sale’ sign plastered on the main window, but the hospital underneath has been replaced by rotting foundation.

And then there’s another, most likely more pressing problem –

“’Suffer more later’,” Ambrose reads aloud, “does she think they’ll take him again?”

“It’s a possibility,” James sighed, “Everything about this is atypical. But my guess is they’ll want to know how he survived their ‘treatment’.”

Yuri feels a little sick. Gods, this is starting to become more of a nightmare than the Puppeteer case and that had been a total shitshow.

James stood up, “For now this case is our focus, if we can we’ll push everything else to Homicide. This has gone on long enough.”

Fuck, Yuri knows that look. That look means three days of no sleep, shit coffee, and running around London like a headless chicken. Still, he’s in absolute agreement that they should’ve dug their heels in on this weeks ago.

“What’s our plan then, O Great and Wise One?” Yuri asked.

“We need more information,” James decided, “so we split up and we do recon. You two will have another go at finding someone to translate those marks. Danny and I will make a trip to East End.”

Yuri’s satisfied with that. A trip to East End to visit James’s civilian informant is more trouble than it’s worth and Danny doesn’t look like she’s anticipating having a good time.

“Hungry?” Ambrose says. Yuri’s stomach promptly lets out a sad little gurgle at the mention of food.

“Stomach says ‘hell yes’,” he replied.

There’s a café nearby that sells really good paninis and Yuri orders a large mocha to go with his because James woke him up just past the asscrack of dawn to keep their last-minute appointment at Nottingham Ward and Yuri didn’t get a chance to make breakfast or coffee. Ambrose sticks with his regular afternoon tea.

“So, what do you think?” Ambrose asked him, stirring a splash of cream into his tea, “Do you think Dr. Ashworth’s information is accurate?”

“She was there,” Yuri said, “she didn’t know a whole lot, but what she did give us makes too much sense to discount it.”

“And Otabek?” Ambrose pressed.

“What about him?” Yuri takes a gulp of his coffee.

“Do you think she’s right and he’s still in danger?” Ambrose pressed.

“I don’t know,” Yuri sighed, “I don’t think they’ll kill him. If he’s really the only survivor or whatever, then he’s valuable right?”

_Valuable enough to use as bait? _

He immediately vetoes that idea because it’s something that shitty sociopathic old fart Victor would suggest. Yuri glares into his coffee and tears open another sugar packet, making Ambrose sigh.

“You know all that extra sugar isn’t good for you,” he says.

“Fuck off, you’re not my dad,” Yuri immediately replied, defiantly stirring his coffee, “Besides, I’ve started doing parkour in the mornings.”

“Again?” Ambrose said, “Didn’t you almost get arrested last time?”

“That mundane cop was an asshole,” Yuri retorted, “I wasn’t being disruptive, and that park is public.” If Yuri sees him again, he’s totally punching him in the face, _‘assaulting an officer’ my ass_. “Anyway, Dr. Ashworth? Seems legit.” He’s not proud of how he handled her having a panic attack, but, well, everybody’s got their character flaws. He’ll just add this one to the list of Things to Work On.

“There’s too many missing pieces here,” Ambrose said, “they’ve been able to operate unhindered in the city. They would’ve run into trouble with all the local gangs by now. Stepping on the wrong toes is inevitable.”

Hence why James and Danny have gone digging. Hopefully, the ‘HHN’ has ‘stepped on a few toes’ and been a nuisance to somebody enough that they’ll be pleased to have the Agency drive them out.

“Who’s to say they haven’t?” Yuri replied, pulling his sandwich towards him when the waitress finally comes by and gives them their food. “I’m pretty sure they’ve annoyed somebody. They’re annoying the hell out of me.”

“Everything annoys you,” Ambrose points out.

Touché, but not the fucking point. There’s bound to be rumors, even just vague ones. Yuri’s not willing to put money on any information James manages to bring back and he says so. Ambrose quietly agrees.

“So, how the fuck are we gonna translate these fucking markings?” Yuri demands, “One of our two ‘experts’ is dead, and you said the other one wasn’t much help.”

“He wasn’t,” Ambrose said, “he only recognized two and gave us rough translations.” 

_All old people know each other. Don’t you know that? _God-fucking-damn Jade and her bullshit quotes for being helpful.

“What if he knows someone who can help?”

Dr. Jerold Abbot still lives and teaches in the city and his residence is tucked away in quiet Maida Vale. His house is easily the smallest on the street, nestled next to a large affluent Victorian-style home at the end of the first street. The garden is a tad overgrown with long creeping grass and a tree in the front corner that desperately needs trimming.

When they knock on the door they wait for a beat or two – long enough that Yuri wonders if they’ve gotten to this one too late as well, but then they hear a muffled, “Coming!” and the shuffling of slippers before the rasp of the deadbolt.

“Oh,” Dr. Abbot says, “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“Sorry to bother you again, Dr. Abbot,” Ambrose said, “but we had a few more questions for you.” 

“Oh yes I remember you,” Dr. Abbot reaches out and firmly shakes Ambrose’s hand, “you came here with that other fellow. The one with the fangs. Do come in, come in. I’ve just put the kettle on.” he turns and shuffles back inside, chattering away, “I should still have some biscuits left. My Martha’s out doing the shopping, you see, all I have are these ginger ones.”

Yuri’s assuming ‘Martha’ is the pretty woman next to Dr. Abbot in all the grainy photos in old frames on the walls. There are several family portraits featuring the couple with their children – in one of them, the youngest is tightly clutching a fat tabby cat and grinning toothily at the camera. All the while, the old professor shuffles continues to clatter around in the kitchen, taking down a biscuit tin while the kettle carefully meters out steaming hot water into three cups set on a tray.

“Here,” Yuri grumbled and takes it from the old man’s arthritic hands when the teacups start to rattle dangerously.

“Oh, thanks very much,” Dr. Abbot says cheerily, “just set it down here, lad.” He gestures to the dining table, draped with an old linen tablecloth that’s seen better days with a spot of dried gravy just off center. “You’ll have to forgive me. If my Martha were here, she would have set out the doilies.” He takes a seat and starts noisily slurping at his tea.

“Um, Professor?” Ambrose begins, unfolding a piece of paper where he’d painstakingly sketched the markings, “We were hoping you could tell us if you know anyone else who could help us translate these?”

Yuri takes a sip of the tea, makes a face, and reaches for the sugar while the old codger rummages for his glasses, setting them on the bridge of his nose before squinting at the paper, “Oh, oh yes. I recall. You see, this is a very very old language. I do believe it’s origins aren’t mundane at all.”

Yuri nibbles on a ginger snap watching the old man smack his lips thoughtfully and nod before handing the paper back to Ambrose, “I think I may know someone who can help you. An old student of mine. Recently graduated. Very very bright fellow, his name is Collin Park. Interesting name, don’t you think?”

“Do you know if he’s still in London?” Yuri asked.

“Not a clue,” Dr. Abbot replies with the same amount of cheer. They’re interrupted by the rattle of the key in the lock and the old professor perks up, “That’ll be Martha with a shopping.”

Somehow, they end up helping the old couple bring in the groceries and then Martha – who’s just as old and grey as her husband (and kind of reminds Yuri of his late babulya) – insists that they take a tin of biscuits with them.

“Well, weren’t they lovely?” Ambrose said.

“I guess,” Yuri muttered.

Ambrose’s phone rings and Yuri can see James’s name on the screen just before Ambrose swipes and holds it to his ear, “Hey James, what’s up?”

“Oi, fucker, put it on speaker,” Yuri swats at him.

Ambrose gives him an exasperated look but takes the phone away from his face and taps the screen. James sounds particularly grim on the other end of the line.

“…they didn’t leave a name,” James was saying, “but they were getting volunteers by putting the word out that they would pay you a stipend if you participated in the study.”

“Let me guess, they didn’t disclose what the study was either,” Ambrose said flatly.

“You’d guess right. Of course, unquestionably sketchy even for the black market. Those that did volunteer had to have been desperate.”

It would explain how a vampire and a werewolf end up in the Central Sub-Q morgue. Of course, the HHN wouldn’t go through the extra effort of subduing two creatures with beyond human strength when they could put out a satisfactory bait and let them come.

So, at one point did they decide that supernatural ‘subjects’ – ugh, that word makes him sick – didn’t work?

“Were there any rumors of volunteers being turned away?” Yuri asked. 

“Not that I know of so far,” James said, “it sounds like there wasn’t much volunteer turnout to begin with and when people didn’t come back, word got out and even the desperate were warned off. Better off selling glass on the corner.”

So, the call ends and Yuri’s got a sour taste in his mouth that not even a proper cup of tea made by Ambrose’s wonderfully skilled tea-making hands could get rid of it (he still munches on the wonderfully buttery shortbread given to them by Mrs. Abbot because it would a damn shame to let it go stale).

Two days later, James’s contact at Nottingham Ward informs them that Dr. Ashworth was found dead in her cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about how Britain's laws regarding prescribing pharmaceuticals works, but in the US medical providers have a special identification number that they use to bill your insurance and order drugs (if they own/run a clinic or practice). I'm assuming the UK has a similar system, otherwise any old weirdo could go around handing out Vicodin. 
> 
> Slightly longer chapter this time and I've already got the next two in progress. 
> 
> Laters! <3


	9. You Can't Tell Me What To Do, You're Not My Real Dad

_August 2024; London_

His phone rings loudly – obnoxiously – for a solid two minutes before he picks it up, “SVU.”

“Agent Plisetsky? Chief Clacher would like to see you in his office,” says the secretary, all sugary sweet, on the other line. Yuri suppresses a groan, looking between the monitor and his notepad where he’s been jotting down addresses.

“Now?”

“Now.” she hangs up and he curses through his teeth. He puts his monitor to sleep and pushes away from his desk. Danny and Ambrose give him curious glances from their desks.

“What’s up?” Danny asked.

“I’ve been summoned by our esteemed commanding officer,” Yuri bites out, stalking out of the office and walking down the hall to the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor.

Chief Clacher has been the bane of Yuri’s existence for the entirety of his short career both in SVU and as a green patrol Agent. Yuri found it hard to believe that this man had been an Exorcist for this long without getting killed. And wasn’t there a rule somewhere that said you had to have brains to be promoted? Yuri’s still salty about that one time that man had the gall to show up to a crime scene – not to help out, mind you, just to show off – and proceeded to contaminate everything. CSI hadn’t been able to collect any viable evidence and that case had been set back by another week. Three years later and Yuri still wants to kick him in the fucking face just for that. 

James is already there when Yuri arrives, clearly looking forward to this as much as Yuri is. It doesn’t look like they were called up here to discuss a raise based on how James’s back is military straight, and his dark eyes are fixed on a bit of wall over Clacher’s shoulder.

“Let’s make this quick,” Yuri says, kicking the door shut behind him (to the chagrin of the secretary who’d been hoping to listen in and get all the latest tea), “I’ve got shit to do.”

James shoots him a pleading look that says, ‘Please, for once, don’t antagonize him, please-‘

“As insubordinate as always, Agent Plisetsky,” Chief Clacher says flatly, his thick Scottish brogue absolutely ruining the pronunciation of Yuri’s surname (as per usual. Gods, Yuri hates him), “Do yerself a favor and shut yer mouth before I really do suspend ya.”

“What is this about, sir?” James said, unfailingly polite.

“That’s a good question, Agent,” Clacher says, making a show of taking out his old man reading glasses and setting them on his nose, “Let’s see now; consorting with mafia informants, unauthorized visits to Nottingham Ward-“

“Gods, what are you? Our dad?” Yuri interrupted, “It was one visit. _One_. That took long as hell to arrange. Your involvement would’ve slowed us down even more.”

“Plisetsky, when I said, ‘shut yer mouth’, I meant it,” Clacher snapped. Yuri rolls his eyes. “The way I see it, this case should’ve been closed already. The suspect you arrested is dead. Suicide, based on this report I’ve received, which is as clear an admission of guilt you’ll ever get, if you ask me.”

_Say what now? _

“We didn’t ask,” Yuri said, “but go off, I guess.” James’s foot nudges his in a silent but obvious warning to calm the fuck down and shut the fuck up before he gets in serious trouble. Idiot or not, Clacher is still their commanding officer.

“Your prolonging the inevitable is making us all look like idiots,” Clacher continued, pointedly ignoring Yuri, “not to mention sending this city into a state of panic.”

Of course, one of the issues with trying to keep a case classified is that somehow word gets out anyway. While nobody else has been reported missing, they’ve found six other dump sites – two Warlocks, a witch, and three mundanes and the coroner’s office has been having a field day. Meanwhile, they’ve got two new leads they’re chasing, and Yuri can’t remember the last time he got more than five consecutive hours of sleep in a single night. He’s pretty sure his blood is more caffeine than heme at this point.

“We’re so close,” James said, “if you gave us a bit more time-“

“I’ve given you enough,” Clacher railroaded, “I’m closing this investigation.”

“You can’t do that,” Yuri protested, “most of the victims have been mundane. Those families will never see justice.”

“Dr. Ashworth is dead,” Clacher said flatly, “that should be justice enough.” The fancy reading lamp on Clacher’s desk began to flicker and then glow a dangerous white hot. Yuri could taste the static on his tongue and the ozone behind his teeth. 

“You’re a godsdamned disgrace to this department,” Yuri spat, “Fucking over innocent people and for what? Your precious reputation?”

“Yuri, calm down,” James murmurs, going to put his hand on Yuri’s shoulder (and then obviously thinking better of it). 

“Plisetsky, you are out of line-” Clacher says, slamming to his feet.

“You sit at your fucking desk and go to your fancy dinners, meanwhile we’re out here busting our ass covering three cases at once with an understaffed Unit,” Yuri shouted, “and you want results in a week? Miss me with that fucking bullshit.”

“Agent Plisetsy,” Clacher said, his voice shaking with anger, “you’re suspended.”

“Sir, we can’t afford-“ James began.

“Be grateful I’m not sending your arse packing,” Clacher snapped, talking over James’s protests, “I’ll be happy to reinstate you when you learn some respect.”

Yuri flips him off, throwing open the door and slamming out of the office. The secretary scrambles to look like she was minding her own business and Yuri sneers at her before punching open a Portal. His magic is alive under his skin – sparks and little threads of lightning jump between his fingers and he’s actively leaking static. The lights in his apartment are already starting to misbehave, bulbs glowing and flickering in their sockets. At this rate he’s going to overload the entire grid on his block.

He wrestles himself out of his clothes and into something he can move in, blindly grabbing a bag and stuffing in some spare clothes, his phone, his charger, and his keys before opening another Portal.

The sun is starting to set in St. Petersburg and the gym is completely dark. Yuri flips on the lights, gritting his teeth when he nearly shorts out the switch. He sets his phone to play a random playlist and barely takes the time to wrap his hands before dragging a punching bag out of the corner. His fingers are tingling, and he can still feel the static in his hair when he throws the first punch.

_Fuck Clacher. Fuck the Council. Fuck them_.

Every bit of him wants to go back and set the entire administrative floor on fire just like they’ve done to the department’s credibility. Declaring Dr. Ashworth posthumously guilty barely a week after her passing, after all she’d done in an attempt to redeem herself, and then trashing those families’ need for closure…

_It’s not fair_.

He pours his magic into his punches, feeling the bag cave under each hit until the chain breaks. His shoulders are burning from the exertion and his thighs are begging for a break, but he’s still so angry.

“Wow.” he startles and the blackened wrappings on his hands completely disintegrate. He hadn’t even heard Ambrose come in, and when he looks past his partner’s shoulder, he can see that it’s completely dark outside now. He’d completely lost track of time and, based on the song, his playlist has cycled through once already.

_…People with the money what they do more or less, focus on the grind I’m the best by default…_

“How’d you get here?” Yuri asked, stomping over and picking up the bag by the broken chain, dragging it back into the corner where he’d found it. Yakov will have his hide for it – this is his gym and everything in it was bought with his money, he won’t appreciate Yuri destroying the equipment.

“Yuuri,” Ambrose said, “I thought I might find you here, so I gave him a call.”

“Of course, you did,” Yuri mutters sourly. He gestures at his phone, stopping the music and wipes at the sweat dripping down his temple, “Are you here to scold me or something?” and Ambrose sighed.

“Yuri, I may not like most of your ideas,” Ambrose said, “but I’m on your side.”

“You’d be the first,” Yuri scoffed.

“No, I’m really not,” Ambrose rebutted, “Your outburst was justified. It could’ve been worded a little better, but…well, this is you we’re talking about.”

Yuri opens his mouth then shuts it again and shrugs.

“Come on,” Ambrose said, nodding to the door, “Danny and James will be waiting for us.” Yuri grabs his things, turns off the lights, locks the door, and Ambrose follows him back through the Portal to London.

His apartment is dark and empty, and when he tries a switch all the lights seem to be in working order. He’ll see if his appliances survived the power surge later, but for now he stalks off to shower and change his clothes.

He feels a bit better when he’s clean and he throws his wet hair up into a top knot before shrugging into the first clean clothes his fingers touch. Ambrose rolls his eyes and heaves an exasperated sigh through his nose when he sees Yuri’s cheetah print hoodie but otherwise keeps his mouth shut.

James and Danny are already waiting for them in a tiny café five blocks from Yuri’s apartment. It looks like the kind of spot that barely manages to pass its health inspections with grimy cheap linoleum, shoddy tables that look like they were bought in bulk from discount Ikea, and wobbly chairs. Their esteemed Unit Captain gets to his feet when he sees them enter the establishment, “Yuri-“

“Don’t,” Yuri said, “Just…don’t.”

“I tried,” James continued in a rush, “I told Clacher we couldn’t afford to lose you, even temporarily. He refused to reverse the suspension.”

“It’s…” Yuri trails off. He almost says ‘fine’, but it’s not. It’s _not_ fine. He’s still angry, but more than that he’s just disappointed.

“Stop standing around like a buncha weirdos,” Danny complained, “Sit and order something, you mannerless heathens.”

“_We’re_ the mannerless heathens?” James rounded on her, “_You’re_ the one who eats cereal out of a frying pan.” Danny gaped at him, totally offended. 

“That was _one time_,” she said.

The waitress stands behind the counter separating the dining area from the kitchen, holding her notepad and two peeling plastic menus, watching them argue with a vaguely amused look and popping her gum.

Thank fuck the café is otherwise empty.

Yuri takes a seat and eventually the waitress wanders over with menus for Yuri and Ambrose. 

“Anything to drink?” she asks the other two.

“What blood products do you have?” James asked, flipping the menu closed.

“The type of the day is A negative,” the waitress answered, and James wrinkles his nose a little but sighs.

“I’ll have a pint of that, please,” he hands her his menu back.

“I’ll just have a Coke,” Yuri sighed, after a cursory glance at the drink listings in the back.

“Now, where were we?” Danny muses when the waitress disappears with their drink orders, “Oh, yeah. Clacher’s a fucking dick.”

“I’m not one to shat on our superiors,” James says rigidly, “but this time I’m inclined to agree. Closing the case and suspending one of us when we’re already so shorthanded…it’s almost malicious.”

“I’m not sorry for what I said,” Yuri glared at a spot on the table.

“And I’m not saying you have to apologize,” James said, earning a shocked look from Danny and Yuri both.

“Who are you and what have you done with James?” Danny said.

“Very funny,” James deadpanned, “but I’m serious, here. Your outburst may have been a tad disrespectful, but I can’t overlook the fact that you were right, and your anger was perfectly justified.”

“Why do I feel like there’s a fucking ‘but’ in there?” Yuri muttered.

“There isn’t,” James said.

“We know you’ll continue investigating regardless of what Clacher said,” Ambrose added.

Yuri doesn’t have the decency to attempt to deny it. In the back of his mind, he wonders when his Unit got to know him so well that they were able to predict that he’d still go after the HHN. Suspension or not, he can’t let this go.

“The only problem we have with that,” Ambrose continued, “is that we’ll be too tied up in wrapping up our current cases, especially with one man down.”

“I don’t think we should be overtly involved anyway,” Danny said, and Yuri snorted.

“Clacher isn’t smart enough to have me watched,” he said.

“Maybe not, but…” Danny frowned, “whoever these people are, if they have the resources to fund a small hospital, they have enough to buy people off.”

Yuri can tell by that borderline cagey look in her eyes that she’s been thinking about this a long time. Airheaded as she tends to be sometimes, Yuri’s learned to trust her instincts. Fuck, maybe it’s better that things turned out this way. An investigation off the record decreases the chance of a leak.

“With that being said, don’t be too reckless,” Ambrose said.

“Only a little reckless,” Danny said, with an enthusiastic nod and held up her fingers – her index and thumb about two inches apart, “Maybe this much.”

“That’s too much,” James sighed, and pinches her fingers a little close together until there’s barely a millimeter left between them, “That much is fine.”

“That’s barely any!” Danny protested.

Yuri rolled his eyes and pulled his Coke a little closer when the waitress set it down so he could take a careful sip from the nearly overflowing glass. He orders the scampi with an extra side of hot chips – “That sounds good, I’ll have the same,” Danny says cheerfully to the waitress – while Ambrose opts for one of the more…unorthodox menu items.

“Must be close to the full moon,” Danny mutters conspiratorially to Yuri across the table like Ambrose can’t hear her with his superhuman ears.

Conversation strays away from the shitty situation at work to James’s latest attempt at dating apps…and it’s kind of nice. Yuri knows it’ll be awhile before they can do this again (he’ll never admit that he’s going to miss it).

By the time the café is due to close and they have to call it a night, there’s a heavy layer of clouds obscuring the stars and the smell of impending rain is thick in the air.

“I better get this one to bed,” James nodded to Danny who squawks indignantly.

“I can put myself to bed, thank you very much-“

James gives Yuri a serious look and a nod, “Keep us updated, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” Yuri answers honestly. He watches James and Danny walk up to the next intersection to cross the street and turns to leave himself, but Ambrose catches him.

“Don’t try and do everything yourself,” Ambrose said, “If you need backup, don’t hesitate to call. I mean it.”

“I’ll be fine,” Yuri said, and his partner narrows his eyes suspiciously.

He leaves before Ambrose can extract some empty promises from him, ducking into an empty side street at the first opportunity to Portal back into his apartment and avoid the oncoming downpour. He flips on the lights and kicks off his shoes, before having a wander into the kitchen to see if he fried any of his appliances with his earlier outburst, but everything seems to be in working order still. It’s barely midnight but he changes into his pajamas and carefully brushes out his hair before braiding it into two neat plaits. He dozes off while watching reruns of _The Great British Bake Off _and startles awake around noon with wan sunlight peeking through the blinds.

“Fuck,” he grumbles when he sees the time, rolling lazily out of bed and shuffling into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

By the time he feels awake enough to function like a proper human being, it’s around ten in the morning in Ottawa and a reasonable enough time to make the phone call he should’ve done before falling asleep.

The phone rings and rings and rings before there’s a click and a hesitant, “Hello?”

“Leo?” Yuri squints at his laptop, “It’s Yuri. Plisetsky.”

“Oh. Oh! My gods, it’s been a while. How are you?”

“Well, I’m not dead yet,” Yuri said. Leo sounds…genuinely happy to hear from him which is weird. Yuri hasn’t spoken to any of Gamma Unit (besides Jade) or their associates since he became an Exorcist and stopped being Jade’s apprentice.

“That’s good,” Leo said, “It’s funny, Guang and I were just talking about you. All good things, of course. We need to meet up or something.”

“I’ll check my calendar,” Yuri deadpanned, “Look, I need a favor.”

He feels kind of like a creeper asking Leo to look someone up for him. If he wasn’t suspended and his login credentials most likely flagged, he would have just used his tablet to access the Agency database and saved himself the trouble and the cost of the international phone call.

“Collin Park? That sounds familiar,” Leo mused, “Give me one sec.” Yuri can hear Leo typing and the click of a mouse, “Oh! He’s an employee!”

“Is he?” Yuri blinks.

“Yeah, Chief Archiver here at NABs,” Leo said, “He’s got a file. Um, did you want-?”

“Nah,” Yuri immediately shuts that down, “I just wanted to ask him to translate something for me.”

Leo gives him an email, an address, and a phone number, to which Yuri says a hasty ‘thank you’ and hangs up before Leo can start talking about hanging out again. He remembers being dragged into Guang Hong and Leo’s innocent victimless shenanigans when he was still apprenticing with Jade. Yuri still swears their combined cheerfulness and oblivious queerplatonic touchy-feely-ooey-gooey bullshit gave him hives. Absently, he scratches at his arm, glowering into the emptiness of his apartment. It’s bad enough that the address Leo gave him has a California zip code. Yuri will testify in court that that state is fucking cursed. Nothing good ever happens when he breathes the same air as surfer babes and LA hipsters.

It’s nearly noon in Ottawa when he finally gets dressed and finishes his second cup of coffee, the lobby of NABHQ practically aglow with late summer sunshine. It’s just as quiet as he remembers, pastel gray walls washed out in the abundance of natural light. Yuri crosses the security barrier and automatically turns to the right – towards HUNTER.

_Wait, wrong way._ He adjusts course, walking straight on through another security barrier. Another slight right and he’ll be in CSI and Analytics, where there are people in navy blue lab coats carting materials and equipment back and forth. A cart stacked dangerously high with sealed evidence boxes is rolling itself along and he watches it trundle along for a few seconds before remembering that he’s here on a mission.

The NAB Archives follow the same pale modern color scheme as the lobby – there is no majestic glass rotunda bringing in artificial sunlight or wooden shelves that climb and climb and climb. It’s just as extensive but more…manageable looking. None of the shelves exceed ten feet in height and the sections are arranged in a tightly organized ever expanding grid instead of a chaotic labyrinth. The help desks are positioned right near the main entrance and he approaches one of the casually dressed Scribes.

“I’m looking for Dr. Collin Park,” Yuri says. The Scribe seems surprised that he’s being acknowledged.

“Er, Collin? He isn’t here today,” the Scribe replied, “it’s his day off.”

Son of a rat bastard’s _bitch_. “Thank you,” Yuri says tightly and stalks out of the Archives, past the two security gates, and into the lobby where he glances at the address written hastily in blue ink and opens another Portal.

He sputters and flails when he steps through right into the tall bushes acting as a sort of barrier between the street and the house with a loud, “Ugh!” He gets scratched up in the process of clawing his way out of the hedges and onto the cracked sidewalk, spitting leaves out of his mouth and slapping off the spider silk clinging to his sleeve while spitting furious curses in Russian.

He finally straightens his clothes and looks up the house that has definitely seen better days. The ugly off-white paint is chipping, and the grey trim has faded over the years of exposure to the elements. A squat purple car is parked on what serves as the driveway.

When Yuri knocks on the door, he waits for a good two minutes before knocking again a little more insistently, this time earning a “Jesus fuck, alright already.” and the door swings open. The man giving him the stink eye is about his height and shirtless, his Tags on prominent display. 

“Can I help you?” he demands.

“You Dr. Collin Park?” Yuri asked. 

His fellow Exorcist runs his tongue over his teeth and sighs before leaning back to yell, “Collin! It’s for you!” there’s no reply, “Fucking…just come in. I’ll go wake him up.” Yuri steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him while Goth Agent storms off to go wake up his roommate.

He’s surprised by how…neat and tidy everything is. He didn’t do much research into Dr. Park’s personal life, but he figured that a recently graduated young man just moved back to the States wouldn’t be in a stable relationship and thus would be living like most twenty-something bachelors. He’d expected body odor and neglected dishes, instead there’s not a single speck of dirt or dust to be seen.

Yuri closes the door behind him just as there’s shouting from the bedroom, “Oi, fuckface! The European Branch is here to see you!” there’s a mumbled barely audible reply, “Fucked if I know! Get up and ask him yourself.”

There’s vague rustling and shuffling and then the linguist emerges, yawning wide enough that Yuri can see four sets of fangs, “Can I help you?”

_Huh…the old man failed to mention his student was a fucking Dragonbeast. _

Yuri wordlessly conjures Ambrose’s sketches of the runes and holds them out. Dr. Park blinks owlishly and takes the paper from him.

“Wow, no, ‘hi, sorry for waking you up on your day off’?” he mumbles, “No introductions-“ he looks down at the paper in his hand and frowns, “What the hell?”

“You don’t recognize it?” Yuri asked, his stomach dropping for a second.

“Of course, I do. This is Han-lim.”

“Thank fuck,” Yuri mutters, “Trying to get these translated has been a bitch.”

“Where did you see these?” Dr. Park holds up the paper.

“Carved into some dead people,” Yuri said flatly and the Dragonbeast goes a little pale at that.

“Oh…”

The roommate reemerges from the bedroom and pads into the kitchen with a sigh, “I’ll make breakfast.”

“I think I need to sit down,” Dr. Park mumbles, ambling like a zombie over to the couch and sinking into it.

“Uh, Dr. Park…?”

“Collin, please,” he interrupts, “I, uh, it’s just…” now he actually looks like he’s going to throw up, and Yuri takes a careful step out of the splash zone just in case. The other agent is a little more helpful, handing the linguist a glass of water. “Thank you, Cato.”

‘Cato’ gives Yuri another hard look before traipsing back into the kitchen to resume making breakfast.

“I’m sorry,” Collin continues, “this language is supposed to be sacred. Han-lim isn’t…it’s not supposed to be used on the dead.”

“Pretty sure they were alive when the runes were cut into their skin,” Yuri said, “at least, that’s what the autopsy report says.”

From the looks of it, Collin doesn’t feel any better hearing that, “Dear gods,” he says hoarsely, rubbing his hands over his eyes, “and here I thought this week couldn’t get any worse.”

“Care to explain _why_ it’s such a big fucking deal, other than it’s ‘sacred’?” Yuri asked.

“There’s strong evidence that Han-lim was one of the first languages used to harness magic in the early days,” Collin explains, “each rune has a singular and absolute meaning. The Keepers believe Han-lim is the language of the universe, but I think that’s a little far-fetched. It’s a powerful language, but any language is powerful in the right hands.”

Yuri immediately thinks of Katsudon. “So…it’s a magic language,” Yuri said slowly, “A language _for_ spells.” 

“Very much so,” Collin affirms, “to the point where wearing these on your skin would be dangerous.” he gives the paper a pointed wiggle.

“So, why was Han-lim used during the Prosecution if it’s so sacred?” Yuri said, trying very hard not to think about Otabek right now and how he’s very much walking around with rune-shaped scars that may or may not be draining his life force.

“Based on documents, it’s because it’s overall a simple language. Like, I said, each rune has a singular meaning. It was an efficient way to communicate between settlements without leaving any room for misinterpretation. Since the IMC established the Agency, there’s never been any more use for it,” Collin takes in a shaky breath, “If I were to read what’s on this paper…I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“What does it say?” Yuri asked, “Not exactly, but paraphrasing would be fine.”

“Basically, it’s a spell for combining demonic strength and power with a human vessel.”

Yuri’s insides feel like they’ve been stolen. He’s vaguely aware of all movement in the kitchen coming to an abrupt stop – an obvious sign that Cato has been listening in, but his brain is moving at a thousand kilometers per hour.

He takes back the paper with Ambrose’s sketches on it and stuffs it in his pocket.

“Thank you for your time,” Yuri said.

“Of course,” Collin says kindly, “If you need anything else, just let me know. Good luck, Agent.”

“I’m gonna fucking need it,” Yuri muttered, already pulling out his phone and hurriedly making a Portal back to London.

Sequestered away in the privacy of his apartment he proceeds to have a quiet meltdown in relative peace.

Jesus Christ, what the _fuck_ was he supposed to do?

If he files a report with HUNTER, it’ll be a lottery for who gets the case since SVU’s investigation was declared closed and he’s technically suspended so he can’t request a team of people he absolutely trusts. He tugs at his braids in frustration and lets out a scream between his clenched teeth.

_One piece of pie at a time, Plisetsky. _

He won’t call his Unit. Not just yet. It’s the first full day that he’s been suspended, and they’ll be struggling to keep their heads above the sea of paperwork as is. No, he’ll make do on his own until everything at the office stabilizes.

He takes a deep breath, holds it, and slowly releases it through his nose.

_One piece of pie at a time. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't fucking believe I resurrected two OCs of mine from an original work that'll never see the light of day. 
> 
> Reminder that each Unit is (keyword) _supposed_ to have a minimum of six members. 
> 
> Happy Taco Tuesday everybody! <3
> 
> Song credits: Temple (ft. MIA & G-Dragon) - Baauer


	10. Um...What?

_August 2024; Toronto_

The moment he takes off he can immediately tell he did something wrong. He loses momentum about one-and-a-half revolutions in and starts to come down.

_Shit_.

“You’re not ready,” Lauren had said, voice steely when he’d come off the plane from Almaty almost three weeks ago. He was starting to think that maybe she was right. She’s been his coach for two years now – she knows his limits better than he does. But still, she knew if he had any chance of making a comeback next season, he’d have to start now so she allowed him to stay and start conditioning…her only request was that he see a counselor at least once a week. He’d been agreeable – whether it was here in Canada or back home in Almaty, he would’ve had to see a therapist anyway.

Otabek picks himself up off the ice, dusting snow off his rump and making sure nothing’s broken. There’s a residual throb in his hip and shoulder where he landed. He’ll be bruised but nothing feels broken. He pauses when he hears a slow clap echo across the ice. For a moment he freezes, wondering if Lauren – or worse her assistant Peter – had caught him. He turns towards the noise, steeling himself in preparation for an inevitable lecture but when instead of brown or black hair he sees a long blonde braid and a familiar emblem on the sleeve of a black jacket there’s a moment of relief.

“This is supposed to be a private session,” Otabek says.

“Is it?” Agent Plisetsky steps onto the ice with hands tucked in his pockets, taking careful steps across the icy surface that Otabek has been carving up for the past unauthorized hour and a half. The Tags – for some reason he feels like that needs to be capitalized – are slightly visible behind the folds of Yuri’s jacket.

“How’d you even get in here?” Otabek asked.

“Magic,” he shrugged a shoulder. Otabek frowns. The doors aren’t necessarily locked, but _someone_ should’ve stopped him from coming in.

Otabek sighs and starts doing lazy laps around the rink, getting halfway into the second go ‘round when he realizes Agent Plisetsky hasn’t said a single word.

“Did you just come to watch or…?”

“Thought we could have a little chat,” Agent Plisetsky said.

“A chat?” Otabek raises an eyebrow.

“Converse, discuss, debate,” he replied, “Take your pick.” His eyes flick over Otabek and he feels like he’s being sized up for a fight or something.

He stands there for who knows how long watching Agent Plisetsky walk off the ice and out of the rink. Dread and confusion roil helplessly in his gut until he’s slightly nauseated and he pushes off with a low huff. He tries to get back into that same headspace as before, building up speed for another attempt at the Lutz. He gets in two rotations before spectacularly two-footing the landing.

For the sake of the argument, he’ll consider this progress. He wipes the snow off his shiny new blades, snaps on his hard guards and takes a seat by his bag to change. He takes a moment to massage life back into his aching frozen feet before shoving them into his gym shoes.

He nods to the latest bored college student manning the desk and steps outside where Agent Plisetsky is sitting on the curb sans jacket and playing what looks like Tetris on his phone. Before Otabek can open his mouth and announce his presence, Yuri puts his phone away and stands, “Fucking _finally_. I’m starving.”

They end up going to a nearby diner that most definitely doesn’t have menu options that comply with his shiny new diet plan. He’s content to peruse the menu in silence, even though he knows exactly what he’ll end up ordering so that his nutritionist doesn’t murder him. Eventually, he sets aside the menu and takes a sip of the ice water he’d ordered.

“Agent Plisetsky-“

“Yuri.”

Otabek blinks, totally nonplussed and ‘Yuri’ leans back in his seat, raising an eyebrow, “Oh, I see. We’re pretending we’re strangers now.”

“No, I just…” he sighs, “Yuri, then. Why are you here? Is the trial coming up?”

Something inexplicable flickers across Yuri’s face, an amalgam of emotions that’s gone as quick as it came, far too fast for Otabek to accurately identify.

“No, do I look like a prosecutor?” Yuri finally said, rolling his eyes, “I’m here because I know you’ve got fucking questions, and maybe you deserve some godsdamned answers.” Otabek can’t keep his gaze from straying to the gunmetal Tags resting just below the collar of Yuri’s t-shirt. “I work for the IAPS, not the LPD.”

“I-A…?”

“International Agency for the Protection of Supernaturals,” Yuri recites flatly, “Uphold the laws that regulate magic and supernatural activity so we can stay protected in the modern world and blah blah blah blah blah. Anyways, I’m not a fucking cop. Not really.”

He should be calling Yuri crazy and storming out…but everything makes too much sense. That station they took him to back in London was way too big for its outside dimensions, the ladies in that lobby with needle-sharp teeth and – if you squinted – fluttering gossamer wings, and the inexplicable way the air around Yuri would crackle when he was agitated. The waiter comes by, seeing that they’ve both set their menus down and Otabek orders a plain hamburger patty with an equally plain side salad. Yuri makes a face at him before giving his order to the waiter.

“So, what are you then?” Otabek asked when their menus are taken, and they’re left in peace.

“Technically, I’m an Exorcist,” Yuri answered, “long fucking story for another time.”

“And all of your team, they’re not human?”

“Eh,” Yuri shrugs a shoulder, “Danny and I kind of consider ourselves humans with a bit of added flavor, since we can do magic and all.”

Otabek paused, “So…you’re a wizard?”

“Call me a wizard again and I’ll turn you into a rat,” Yuri says it with a grin that promises violence. “I’m a Warlock,” Yuri points at him, and an arc of electricity dances along his index finger, “Got that? _War_. _Lock_. Don’t call me a witch either. We’re two entirely different species.” 

There are _species_?

“Okay, so…is Danny a Warlock too or…?”

“Yeah, she’s half-witch,” Yuri said, “A lot of us like are like that these days. It’s impossible to find a witch or Warlock that isn’t half this or half whatever-the-fuck. Even the old Aristocracy has some mixed blood. Of course, they’ll deny it to the ends of the fucking earth because they’re uppity like that.”

“Like in Harry Potter?” Otabek can’t resist and Yuri scoffs.

“Harry Potter is for children,” Yuri says bitingly, green eyes fierce. The waiter sets down Yuri’s milkshake and the Exorcist greedily pulls it towards him and takes a long slurp.

Conversation dwindles when their food arrives, though the judgmental looks Yuri gives Otabek’s sad little salad in between bites of the caloric monstrosity he ordered says quite enough. Yuri leaves a handful of crumpled Canadian bills on the table when it’s time to leave, indulging in a long sinuous stretch that has Otabek inexplicably averting his eyes and starting the walk home. Yuri easily falls into step with him, his much longer legs enabling him to keep up with Otabek’s determined stride.

“Is there a reason you’re following me?” Otabek finally sighs.

“I never said we were done,” Yuri replied, “and since I’m _such_ a fucking gentleman, I figured the rest could wait until we were in private.”

Otabek can’t hold back the snort at hearing Yuri describe himself as a gentleman. He doesn’t know Agent Plisetsky all that well, but even he can tell that this man – Warlock, whatever – would sooner bust your kneecaps than hold the door open for you. He lets them both into his apartment, dropping his keys into the bowl on the shelf next to the door.

He toes off his shoes and nudges them into place, before padding off to drop his bag next to the washing machine as a reminder not to take the same smelly compression leggings to the gym tomorrow. When he comes back, he finds Yuri waving his hand over the doorway and he raises an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

Yuri doesn’t answer until he’s finished muttering unintelligibly, “Protection.”

“And why would I need that?” Otabek said.

“Because the people that took you might want you back,” Yuri turns to level Otabek with a grim determined look.

His indignance melts away, replaced with a cold feeling inside, “Why? I don’t understand…”

“Those scars on your skin aren’t just symbols from a stupid cult ritual,” Yuri says tightly, “it’s a spell meant to advance your abilities or some shit. As far as I know, you’re the only one that’s survived the experiment, and based on the advice of someone who knows more about fucking science than I do, they will want you back to do further…testing.” Yuri says the word like it's physically disgusting.

_Well, at least he didn’t try to sugarcoat it. _

Distantly, he wonders why he’s not panicking. A normal person would be having a meltdown – screaming, crying, demanding more answers.

“And you’re sure about this?” Otabek insisted, “What if you’re wrong?”

Yuri snorts, “Bitch, please. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s to go with my gut. And my gut tells me that I need to be here if I have any real chance of catching those assholes.”

Otabek takes a deep breath in through his nose, “Fine.” And immediately shuts himself in his bedroom to shower, change, and freak out. Not necessarily in that order.

He gets undressed on autopilot, grimacing as his bruised shoulder twinges and he inspects it in the bathroom mirror. It’s not quite purpled yet, there’s some splotchy redness with some slight blue around the edges. He sighs and just silently thanks the heavens that he wears long sleeves now to keep the juniors from ogling at his new scars.

The one above his heart is still angry-looking, like it’s still in the process of healing – an ugly, twisted keloidal thing, with no decipherable shape like the others and it is ice cold to the touch. He can’t tell if it’s because it is still healing or because they were deliberately malicious with this particular spot. Now, he knows that they’ve carved an actual honest-to-goodness spell into his skin. He doesn’t have time to wrangle his brain into believing that magic exists when he saw Yuri crackle with electricity back at the diner. Otabek inspects the silvery scar over the blue vein in the crook of his elbow, vaguely wondering what it means before shaking his head at himself.

_Just be thankful they didn’t carve up your face_, he tells himself. Just like he has been for the past two months. Like it isn’t bad enough that he has to see the rest of the evidence that his body has been violated – changed against his will – daily in the mirror.

He turns on the shower to the hottest it can go, and steps in when the bathroom starts to fill up with steam. He turns his face into the spray with a sigh, squinching his eyes shut against the sting of the hot water, his throat inexplicably tight.

_What more could they want from me? They’ve already taken everything_. His peace of mind, his ability to go back to living a normal life, the respect of his peers...

His tears blend in with the water and he absently reached for the soap, standing in the spray long after he’s rinsed off and the water begins to turn tepid. He turns off the shower, splashes his face with cool water from the sink to hopefully calm the tell-tale redness around his eyes, and dries himself off.

He’s still overheated from his shower, so he just pulls on his pajama bottoms and steps out of the room to see if Agent Plisetsky has left and…he’s on the couch, flicking through Netflix.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Otabek deadpanned, walking into the kitchen. 

“What a fucking gracious host I have,” Yuri flatly replied, scrolling through Otabek’s list, “What the fuck are all these romcoms?”

“If you don’t like them, don’t watch them,” Otabek told him, filling a glass with water and making sure to drain it before padding off to bed, “Don’t be too loud. I have to be up at dawn.”

“Aye aye,” Yuri says behind him.

He shuts the door behind him, his head hitting the pillow with a sigh and he can hear the low murmur of the TV. Listening and trying to parse whatever Yuri’s chosen to watch eventually lulls him to sleep.

_He gets the odd feeling that he’s being examined. _

_The faint glow from the monitor doesn’t do much to break up the darkness. The nurse must have been in because it’s been silenced, and there’s a blood pressure cuff affixed to his arm – the obnoxious noise and squeeze from said cuff re-taking his pressure having woken him up in the first place. _

_He yawns, scratches at his chest, his fingers meeting the edges of the electrodes stuck to his skin and he pauses, looking fruitlessly down. It’s too dark to see, but he knows they’re there underneath his gown. The monitor suspended to his left doesn’t sound the alarm, so he hasn’t disrupted the stickers. He glances up at the screen, watching the steady rise and fall of his heartbeat, like craggy mountains. He squints at the patch of darkness in the corner, just behind said monitor. _

_The unbidden thought that the darkness has been watching him is stupid. Darkness doesn’t have_ eyes.

He wakes up, clammy and heart racing. It takes a moment for him to reach over and hit ‘dismiss’ on his alarm. The first weak rays of dawn break up the darkness of his room and he scrubs a hand over his face then forces himself out of bed. He brushes his teeth, gets dressed, and pads to the kitchen. He pauses when he sees a socked foot sticking up on one end of the couch, internally smacking himself for forgetting, for just a brief second, that he has a guest.

He peeks over the back of the couch, completely unsurprised to see that Agent Plisetsky wears that same frown even in his sleep. His blonde hair is spread out over one of the throw pillows, his earlier French braids completely unraveled. Maybe it’s because his face is so expressive when awake, but Otabek hadn’t noticed the dark shadows underneath the Exorcist’s eyes until now.

_You’re staring_, he reminds himself, _like a creep_.

He shakes his head and pads into the kitchen to make himself his normal protein shake, quietly capping the bottle to take with him and grabbing one of the prepared meals neatly packaged in uniform Tupperware from the fridge. He puts a clean pair of compression leggings into his bag while the smelly ones from yesterday go in the pile, then quietly slips on his shoes and steals out of the apartment like a ninja.

He gets to the rink while the ice is still being smoothed by the Zamboni and he takes the opportunity to finish drinking his breakfast, stretch, and get warmed up. By the time he’s lacing up his newly broken in skates, the ice is ready to be carved up again. There are places where the water from the Zamboni has pooled to leave irregular patches of ice, perfect for digging in his toe-pick and pivoting into a little spin.

Otabek sticks to the basics that Lauren has had him practicing for the past week, being good and abstaining from the jumps that he attempted last night. The scrape and scratch of his blades against the ice untangles the twisted knot of ugliness that’s been sitting in his chest since Yuri arrived. He finds himself keeping a rhythm that’s been stuck in his head for weeks while working up a decent sweat keeping up his momentum as he skates laps around the rink.

He comes to a stop when he spots Lauren standing at rink-side, her arms crossed over her chest as she watches him.

“Good form,” she says, “Early as usual, I see.”

Otabek shrugs and Lauren gives him an assessing look. For a moment, Otabek starts to panic because it’s almost certain that _she knows_ he was here until closing last night, and even worse practicing jumps when he hasn’t been back on the ice for a month yet.

“GOOOOD MORNING EVERYONE!” JJ’s voice echoes across the rink. Lauren is immediately distracted and Otabek makes a silent note to buy JJ a coffee – on second thought, giving JJ caffeine is bound to make him even more obnoxious.

The first half of their morning session passes in a blur of Otabek and JJ being put through their paces with Lauren acting as JJ’s temporary coach while his parents celebrate their anniversary in the Maldives.

“If you can pose, you can work,” Lauren snapped at JJ and he drops his pose, “Your landing on the flip isn’t clean enough. Do it again.” She rounded on Otabek, “And you. You’re reverting to your old mistakes. Your momentum was shoddy and you’re not tucking in tight enough.”

“Yes Coach,” Otabek says.

It becomes a relentless, pounding mantra: _one more time, do it again, one more time_. And then it’s time for lunch and for the Zamboni machine to cover up the signs of their hard work, smoothing over the ice and making it look nice and clean again.

Otabek takes careful measured sips of his water, before digging out his pre-prepared lunch and forking mouthfuls of lightly seasoned chicken and cold vegetables into his mouth.

“You’re still on that keto thing?” JJ asked.

“Yep,” Otabek replied, stabbing another floret of broccoli with his fork. He’s paying the price for indulging in all those home-cooked meals and practically eating his weight in shelpek. 

“Diets suck major balls. Last night Bella made this baked ziti? Oh god, I thought I was gonna die,” JJ gets a familiar glazed look in his eyes that’s both rapturous and tortured – probably because he’d had to sit there with his diet-approved meal while Isabella got to enjoy cheesy pasta goodness.

It’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed: Isabella is still punishing JJ by cooking scrumptious meals that are definitely not a part of his diet plan.

“What did you do this time?” Otabek raised an eyebrow, smiling around the lip of his water bottle.

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? It isn’t funny,” JJ complained, “You forget to do the dishes _once_ and you’re stuck in the doghouse for the rest of your life, I’m serious.”

Otabek laughs, nearly snorting water out of his nose. JJ abruptly stops and looks curiously past him to where the doors to the rink are shut to the public, “I think you’ve got an admirer.”

It’s Yuri standing there with Starbucks in his hand and looking quite unimpressed. At some point he’s showered and changed clothes and he’s brushed his hair back from his scowling face. 

“Would you excuse me for a second?” Otabek sets his water and empty Tupperware aside before getting up and too-casually walking over to the doors, the hard guards on his blades making his gait a little awkward and he pokes his head out of the doors. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re not kidnapped,” Yuri snapped, “What does it look like?”

“It _looks_ like you’re stalking me,” Otabek said. Yuri snorted and took a long draught of his over-sugared monstrosity with what looks like extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle (and Otabek is definitely not jealous…God, he misses chocolate).

“I’m placing protection on this building,” Yuri says, then leans in uncomfortably close, “Text me before you go anywhere else, got it?” he takes his Starbucks and disappears. Otabek frowns at his retreating back before pulling his head back into the cool air and letting the door close with a clank. He wobbles back over to JJ who obviously watched the whole exchange curiously.

“Friend of yours?” JJ asked, clearly amused.

“Yeah, he thought we were supposed to hang out,” Otabek lies, “Bit of a mix-up.”

JJ buys it, and Otabek feels a little bit squicky about the untruth and how easily it rolled off his tongue. He’s never liked liars and turning into one to protect secrets that aren’t really his leaves him unsettled.

They have another hour of ice time before the rink opens for public skate and Lauren makes sure that not a single minute of it is wasted before she wraps up practice by giving them their notes for the day, her biting criticism becoming points to work on for tomorrow’s session.

He has a session with the in-house physiotherapist to work on his adductor that’s been giving him a bit of trouble since Lauren’s had him re-learning his spins and changeovers. He’s on the table for both too long and not long enough, time slowing to a crawl whenever the discomfort borders on outright pain. He wasn’t expecting his hips to be so stiff. Sure, he’s not as flexible as his other competitors, but he’s not an old man either.

_This sucks_, he concluded.

He changes into his compression leggings and finally checks his phone before he starts the long walk home. There are two notifications from an unknown number with a Russian area code.

xxx-xxx-xxxx   
  
Thanks for waking me asshole.   
  
I'm eating all your fruit.

Otabek lets out a loud snort. Oh well, he can’t really be mad that all the produce he bought isn’t going to waste. Most of the meals he’s allocated for his diet plan consist of vegetables, greens, and lean meat anyway, and his nutritionist has made it clear that he’s supposed to seriously cut back on sugar (including fruit).

He sees that Yuri has taken Otabek at his word and made himself very much at home. He’s got his legs folded up on the couch, eating greasy cheap Chinese food straight out of the takeout carton while a movie plays on the TV. The apartment appears to be in one piece otherwise.

Yuri seems happy to ignore him while shoveling clumps of noodles into his mouth and Otabek attempts to get on with his routine like the Exorcist isn’t here.

He starts the laundry, far too aware of the TV in the other room and heaves a quiet sigh. Yuri crunches loudly on a wonton while Otabek pads across the floor to his bedroom, his presence far too conspicuous for Otabek to go on pretending that his house hasn’t been invaded by a junk-food-eating Warlock.

He showers, makes himself a snack, then joins Yuri on the couch, “Scoot.” earning a few grumbles while long legs are unfolded so Yuri can shuffle over and make room.

“How long are you planning to stay here?” Otabek asked, picking up a piece of his peanut butter toast and taking a bite.

“Trying to get rid of me already?” Yuri said and Otabek just gives him a withering look, “Tough shit. You’re stuck with me until I bring those bastards down.”

“And you got my phone number, how?”

“I have people,” Yuri says vaguely, waving his chopsticks around, “You’re not all that hard to find Mr. Hero of Kazakhstan.”

“I’m not a hero,” Otabek says flatly, “Never was.”

“Tell that to your adoring fans,” Yuri replied.

“If anyone’s a hero here it’s you,” Otabek said and startled when Yuri laughed. It’s not a nice laugh, completely mirthless and full of bitter regret that they probably won’t be unpacking anytime soon.

“I’m an Exorcist,” Yuri says, “heroism ain’t got a damn thing to do with the job.” He sounds like he’s quoting someone, but – again – not exactly the time to be unpacking stuff.

“You saved me,” Otabek shrugged a shoulder, “why shouldn’t that make you a hero?”

Yuri stares at him, eyebrow twitching, “That’s _not_ how it works.”

“How does it work then?”

He can’t believe he’s arguing about this with someone who can literally make him disappear. Sure, he’s got maybe 30 kilos worth of muscle on Yuri, but he’s pretty sure the guy can still kick his ass with or without magic.

Yuri sticks his chopsticks in his mouth and pulls them out clean before jabbing them in Otabek’s direction, “The way it works, Mr. Champion, is that heroes save people because they fucking _can_, because they _want to_. Civilians make things messy as fuck, hence they’re an occupational hazard. _You_ fall into that category.”

_Ouch_.

“An Exorcist’s job is to preserve our society and keep mundanes out of our business,” Yuri said, “so that shit like The Prosecution doesn’t happen again. You feel me?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Otabek nodded, “Not a hero.”

“Not even close,” Yuri scoffed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *does more research than I necessarily need to about Russian area codes, and the keto diet*  
Also me: *has only ever been on the See Food Diet; says 'fuck it all' and puts all x's in place of the numbers, because what is life?* 
> 
> I remember when this chapter was a teeny little plot bunny sitting on my hard drive. *wipes away tear* They grow up so fast.
> 
> Stay healthy, stay hydrated, stay safe. Laters <3


	11. And They Were Roommates

_August 2024; Toronto_

He sucks a gulp of air into his burning lungs, holding it there for a moment and breathing out. Overhead the stars are beginning to fade as the sun starts to make its ascent into morning and Yuri wipes off the bead of sweat stubbornly clinging to the tip of his nose.

_Time to go. _

Otabek will be awake soon. It’s only been a week but Yuri practically has his schedule memorized – every morning, the figure skater wakes up at the asscrack of dawn to get dressed in breathable clothing, make himself an awful protein shake for breakfast, and then leaves either for the rink or for the gym where he does off-ice training. Yuri makes a mental note to inform Otabek that he is predictable as fuck and if he wants to avoid becoming a lab rat (again) he’ll need to change things up a bit. Mentally, he snorts at the thought of how well _that_ conversation will go. The figure skater has made it clear he barely tolerates Yuri’s presence in his life as it is. At least he hasn’t dared to call Yuri ‘bossy’ again…not to his face anyway.

He pauses at the edge of the complex when he hears an odd noise – almost like a wet crunch. He softens his footsteps as he approaches the two large dumpsters that have definitely been knocked a little further apart to make room for what looks like a coretan demon in the middle of what sounds like a very satisfying meal.

“What the hell?” his mouth forms the words but there’s no air to give them sound. He watches, waiting for a Hunter to swoop in and kill the thing, but the cracking of bones and the hungry slurping continues. It hasn’t noticed him yet, all of its senses focused on enjoying the delicacy it crossed dimensional borders for. 

Dealing with it is above his paygrade, and he’s not even licensed (or trained) to hunt these things but if he steps away to safely report it, there’s a chance some poor unsuspecting sod trying to take out the trash will end up as the demon’s dessert.

Yuri looks at the pool of darkening blood staining the asphalt and the short stubby legs of the reptilian monstrosity. He wonders if his lightning can penetrate that thick scaly armor, especially if he has the blood acting as a conductor. He walks forward slowly until his shoe is touching the edge of where dark sticky red has trickled out over the ground.

He’s had years of practice controlling his lightning and it’s too easy to guide the spark where he wants it to go. The coretan growls at the first tickle of electricity and finally pries its head from the open cavity where it had been feasting on cold innards and eagerly licking marrow from the rib bones, fixing its mean little eyes on the Exorcist that dared interrupt its breakfast.

Yuri increases the voltage, his blood pounding in his ears and the coretan goes stiff, letting out a louder growl and the barb on its tail makes an appearance, leaking a bead of potent neurotoxin from the wicked sharp tip. He’s read enough about this particular species’ nasty brand of poison, knows that its paralytic properties eventually cause the victims to go into respiratory failure and cardiac arrest.

He would very much like to not be stung.

“Oh no you don’t,” he hissed.

The coretan starts to scream, musculature locking up and scales shriveling as they dry out. The inhuman noises of distress end with a well-fired plasma bolt and all that’s left is a smoking husk. Yuri eyes what remains of the coretan’s breakfast with unbridled revulsion. It’s still, unfortunately, recognizable as a person – the arms and legs are still attached, if a bit nibbled on, and the head is still intact though the face is marred with deep claw marks. He expends a little more magic incinerating the body and leaves the coretan husk to crumble into foul grey ash under the early morning sun before making himself scarce.

By the time he reaches Otabek’s apartment, he’s sweating more than he was before and he takes a seat in the entryway once he’s inside, realizing how exhausted he is when he finds that the number of seconds between blinks is growing shorter and shorter.

There’s a sliver of skin between his leggings and the top of his shoe, and he can see a rosy pink spot peeking out under the hem just above his ankle.

_Fuck_, that’s what he gets for expending so much magic on so little sleep. His head falls back against the wall with a muted thump and his eyelids are so heavy…

_He’s shivering so hard it feels like his teeth are going to rattle out of his skull. Snow clings to his eyelashes and he can feel the cold biting the tip of his nose and his cheeks. _

_No matter which direction he turns, all he sees is snow. The blizzard trapping him in an endless white void. _

_It’s too cold to move but he starts walking anyway, driven by a nameless urgency and the taste of metal in his mouth. _

He startles awake just before the storm swallows him, making eye contact with Otabek who’s standing a short distance away, watching him with concerned eyes.

“Ah, fuck,” Yuri croaks, straightening with a grimace. His neck’s gone stiff and his backside is numb from sitting on the floor.

“Are you okay?” Otabek asked.

“Fucking peachy,” Yuri grumbled in Russian, rolling his neck and sighing when felt his stiff joints pop, “’S what I get for doing things above my paygrade.”

Otabek doesn’t look all that convinced but Yuri’s more concerned with toeing off his shoes and finally making it to the couch. He sinks into the cushions and lays his head on the throw pillows, “Ugh.”

“Is that…blood? On your shoes?”

“Mm,” Yuri hummed, closing his eyes, “Not mine. Now shut the fuck up for a second. Killing demons is exhausting.”

Otabek goes quiet again and Yuri hears him pad into the kitchen, open a cabinet and then close it again. Ten minutes later, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the apartment. He should get up and shower. And possibly shave. There’s too much to be done for him to lay here and wallow.

With mustered effort, he sits up and pulls the waistband of his leggings down, choking back curses at the purpling marks on the inside of his thigh. They’re barely the size of a penny, but he should still avoid expending any more magic lest the bruises spread to the rest of his body and turn into welts.

_Gods, if James and Ambrose find out about this, they’ll skin me alive_. 

Yuri yanks up his leggings with a huff, rolling off the couch and stalking into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He won’t be napping anymore today. Otabek easily moves aside while Yuri reaches into the cupboard for a mug.

“Do you kill demons often?” Otabek asked.

“I told you, it’s above my paygrade,” Yuri said, grabbing the sugar and stirring in three heaping spoonfuls, “I’m not licensed to hunt demons. So, if anybody asks, there was no demon. You never heard a thing about this. Got it?”

“Understood,” Otabek says easily. Yuri glares at him over the rim of his cup. Gods, this is why humans are so fucking tedious. They never take anything seriously.

He swipes the toast that pops up out of the toaster before Otabek can grab it and takes it with him to the couch. Is he being needlessly petty? Yes. Does he care? Not a bit.

Otabek eventually joins him on the couch with his own breakfast in hand, sitting at the opposite end and taking quiet bites.

The silence between them isn’t necessarily awkward with the TV acting as a buffer, but he can tell Otabek is thinking quite loudly just a cushion space away. Yuri finishes his coffee and crunches the last of his (stolen) toast before standing.

“I’ll be back,” he says, “Stay put.”

Otabek gives him an exasperated look that Yuri ignores, opening a Portal and stepping through into the solace of his own apartment. It feels weird to come back home when he hasn’t been sleeping in his own bed for the past five consecutive nights, like he’s a stranger passing through.

He feels marginally better when he’s in the shower after a quick shave, brushing his teeth under the spray and letting the water thoroughly soak his hair. He takes his time washing off the smell of old sweat and ozone, combing conditioner through his hair with his fingers and standing underneath the hot water until his pale skin is flushed pink and his toes are wrinkled like raisins.

The first comfortable clothes he touches are yanked on and he pops out to check the mail before he’s presumed dead or missing based on the sheer amount of overflow. 

There’s a large brown envelope crammed into his tiny mailbox atop all the junk mail and billing statements labeled ‘To Yuri, from Danny’ in hasty dry-erase marker. There’s a leather organizer inside, filled to near-bursting with all of her notes and research on the HHN case.

_Danny, I fucking love you_, he thinks. He wonders how much sleep she lost to help him this much – between the two cases that were (and probably still are) active, this must’ve been at least two all-nighters. He takes the organizer with him through the Portal back into Canada.

The living room is empty, but he can hear the shower going, so he’s confident Otabek hasn’t left the protection of the apartment. Yuri sets the organizer on the table and helps himself to Otabek’s kitchen to make a quick – significantly more nutritionally balanced – breakfast. He cracks two eggs into a hot frying pan, shoves some bread into the toaster, and microwaves some leftover sausages.

_I should get some potatoes_, he thinks, covering the eggs so they’ll finish cooking. His mouth waters thinking of the golden crispy chips straight out of a food truck fryer by the beach in Hunstanton. He stops drooling in time to keep the eggs from burning and carries his plate of breakfast over to the couch while the breakfast dishes give themselves a quick wash in the sink.

He conjures his tablet and types in Ambrose’s credentials to log in, nibbling at his toast while he starts combing through Danny’s notes. She even went so far as to make a roughshod timeline of when the HHN probably started becoming more active, based on Dr. Caldwell’s neurotically detailed bookkeeping.

Otabek’s coffee table quickly becomes a mess as Yuri spreads everything out so he can see it all.

Somewhere in the background, Otabek pads out of his bedroom shortly after finishing his shower and makes an odd noise that drags Yuri’s attention from his notes. The figure skater is standing frozen in his kitchen, watching (presumably in horror, Yuri can’t really see his expression) the frying pan and the spatula Yuri used get scrubbed vigorously with a soapy sponge.

A little _too_ vigorously.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he calls to the sponge, “rinse and put away.”

The figure skater looks faintly unsettled and waits until the dishes are finished drying themselves to completely enter the kitchen and pour another cup of coffee. For a moment there’s just silence – Otabek quietly stirring and Yuri devouring his breakfast.

“Uh…” Otabek said, leaning over the back of the couch, “do you…do that often?”

“Advanced multitasking,” Yuri said, mopping up the spilled yolk from his eggs with his toast and gestures at the inventory sheets so they flip over to the other side.

“Right,” Otabek nodded, “Guess I’m still getting used to the whole magic thing.”

If he’s this thrown off by some levitating dishes and autonomous cleaning supplies, Yuri wonders if Otabek would launch into a full-scale freak out at more overt displays of magic. Or maybe he’d outright faint like a scandalized aristocrat. He snorts out loud at the thought of Otabek swooning.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” Yuri waves him off, covering his eyes with his hand.

“So, I had a question,” Otabek begins and Yuri sighs.

“Shoot.”

“Is magic just…magic? Or are there different types of magic?”

Yuri blinks at him, “Er…both? I guess?”

Otabek just looks confused so Yuri sits up, absently banishing his dirty plate to the kitchen, and scratches his leg, “Magic, as a whole, is a manifestation of a person’s will. You will it, the magic does it. Make sense?” the skater nods, “And I guess there’s different ‘types’. Some practitioners are born with affinities, like for an element. ‘S more common in witches than Warlocks.”

“Were you born with an affinity?”

“Plasma manipulation,” Yuri said, “I’ve heard some people call it electrokinesis, but that’s…not entirely accurate.”

“So,” Otabek pauses, eyes searching, “what’s the difference between a witch and a Warlock?”

“Witches are limited by their affinities,” Yuri said, “An elemental witch can’t do that.” he gestured to the kitchen where the sponge was at it again, vigorously scrubbing Yuri’s plate and fork. “Is any of this making any fucking sense?”

“For the most part, yeah,” Otabek nodded, and proceeds to finish his coffee while Yuri gives himself a headache trying to wrestle answers from thin air. Danny’s notes are meticulous, but they certainly can’t provide an easy solution to finding the HHN.

“Um,” Otabek starts.

“What now?” Yuri grumbled, “You want a demonstration?”

“I think you’ve demonstrated enough magic already,” Otabek said, “No, I wanted to let you know I’m going out with friends later.”

“Oh, that sounds like a marvelous idea,” Yuri says dryly, “Why don’t I go ahead, and gift wrap you while we’re at it?”

“I’d invite you along, but I don’t think they’ll let you in,” Otabek continued.

“And why the fuck not?” Yuri demanded, “I’ll be on my best behavior if that’s what you’re worried about. Hades knows I wouldn’t want to embarrass the champion in front of his friends.”

“No, it’s not that. The drinking age here is nineteen,” Otabek said, “They won’t let a minor in, even if you promise not to drink.”

_How old does this motherfucker think I am? _

“First of all: fuck you,” Yuri said, holding up a finger, “second of all: I’m twenty-three. Third: fuck you very much.”

Otabek just stares at him, and gives him a quick once-over, “You don’t _look_ twenty-three.”

Yuri gives him a withering look and conjures his tablet, typing in Ambrose’s credentials so he can pull up his personnel file, “You can do basic math, can’t you fucker?” he points to his birthdate next to his photo where it says March 01, 2001. “Happy now?”

“Okay, not eighteen,” Otabek concedes, cool as a fucking cucumber, “You still look like a very tall eighteen-year-old.” Yuri wants to punch him.

“You know I can incinerate you?” Yuri tells him, banishing the tablet, “Wouldn’t take much, and _poof_, you’re gone.”

“I’ll let JJ and Bella know you’re coming, then,” Otabek sighed, standing and taking his mug with him to the kitchen.

Ugh. Interacting with Otabek’s mundane friends and pretending that he’s a regular joe schmoe with a boring job sounds like cruel and unusual punishment. Oh, the price he pays for trying to keep his bait – er, witness – safe. He should stay home and just send Otabek on his way with layers of protection charms. Or better yet: insist that Otabek _not_ go out and put himself at unnecessary risk.

Fuck, that last option is a hard ‘no’. He can’t stifle the skater and keep him from living his life only because he knows he’d fucking hate it if the same were done to him.

Otabek doesn’t rejoin him on the couch, leaving Yuri to stew in peace.

Eventually, he stops pouting at the idea of going out and talking to people and starts combing through the rest of Danny’s notes.

He finds out a printout from the HM Land Registry’s website and runs his tongue over his teeth.

He may have an idea, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. As loathe as he is to ask Leo for another favor (which may or may not result in him getting roped into hanging out with the pure sunshine duo), he might not have a choice.

He carefully inspects himself to make sure he’s not breaking out in hives and freezes in the middle of trying to get a look at his back when he sees Otabek standing by his bedroom and looking very confused.

“What…are you doing?” he asked slowly.

“Making sure I’m not breaking out in hives,” Yuri answers honestly and succeeds in confusing the skater even more.

_Good. Maybe that’ll teach him not to ask stupid questions. _

“Are you going to the club like that or did you want to change?”

Yuri glances down at his yoga pants and bleach-stained t-shirt, and grumbles about having to change _again_.

“One second.”

His closet is a haven of things he doesn’t regularly wear due to the fact that most of them were bought during a moment when the ‘treat yo’self’ vibes became too strong to resist and the idea of these pieces being ruined causes him emotional distress. The dresser is overrun with the practical items he wears as an Exorcist – breathable clothing, plain t-shirts bought in a pack of ten at Tescos, and cheap trousers off the bargain rack.

He mourns his comfy clothing as he tugs on a pair of jeans that are most definitely not practical and a shirt with a snarling tiger graphic on the front. He musters enough effort to brush his hair and heaves a tired sigh at his reflection in the mirror. He’s showered, he’s shaved, and he put on decent clothes – let no one say that he didn’t try at least a little bit.

It looks like Otabek felt much the same, wearing beaten jeans, a white shirt, and a well-loved leather jacket.

“You look like a greaser from the ‘50s,” Yuri tells him.

“Thank you…?”

Yuri’s never been to a mundane club before, but he assumes it’s just like the other clubs he’s been to in the past – a lot of drinking, a lot of drunk people rubbing up against each other inappropriately, and a lot of loud music.

“How are we supposed to find your friends in this mess?” Yuri raises his voice so he can be heard over the noise pouring out of the large speakers. Keeping track of Otabek in the crush of bodies on the dance floor will be an absolute nightmare.

“I just got their text,” Otabek said, leaning in so he doesn’t have to shout, “They’re by the bar.” He turns to lead Yuri through the club but a hand on his arm stops him.

“One second,” Yuri said, then took his forearm, circling Otabek’s wrist with his forefinger and thumb. When the charm is finished and he draws his fingers away, there’s a beaded bracelet in their place, “Just in case I lose you.”

Otabek opens his mouth – probably to ask more damn questions – but Yuri nudges him forwards. The sooner they find his friends, the sooner Otabek will get his much-needed social interaction, and the sooner Yuri can have his peace of mind back.

A man and a woman that Yuri assumes are JJ and Isabella are indeed waiting by the bar, the former with his arm wrapped around the latter and they chat animatedly until they spot Otabek.

“You made it!”

Yuri rolls his eyes because _obviously_.

“See? It’s good for you to get out of the house once in a while,” JJ laughed, clapping Otabek on the shoulder. The music is loud, even all the way over here, but JJ somehow manages to be just as or even louder.

“Jean-Jacques Leroy, a pleasure to meet you,” JJ says, taking Yuri’s hand in a firm grip, “It’s nice to see that Otabek is branching out.” Yuri wonders if all the smiling is a force of habit or if JJ’s another one of those people full of endless cheer and positivity. Either way, Yuri swears he can already feel himself breaking out in hives.

“Yuri,” he says shortly, wriggling his fingers from JJ’s tight handshake only for his wife Isabella to promptly grab it.

“You can just call me Bella,” she tells him.

“Okay,” Yuri replied. _Is it time to go home yet?_

“That’s an interesting accent,” JJ points out, “Where are you from, Yuri?”

“Moscow.”

“I know a couple of skaters from Moscow,” JJ says, “Right Ota? There’s Evgeniy.”

“I think he trained in Moscow,” Otabek replied, “I don’t think he’s from Moscow.”

“Eh, same difference. What are we having to drink?” JJ asked, “Yuri? Vodka for you?”

Yuri officially hates him.

“Rum and coke,” Yuri said stiffly. So much for staying sober and vigilant, but he’ll need the buzz if he’s going to be putting up with this bullshit all night. He levels an unimpressed look at Jean-whateverthefuck’s back before turning his gaze to the dance floor. The crush of bodies almost looks like a single organism, moving slightly out of time with the beat.

Yuri and Otabek barely have their drinks in hand when the music changes and Isabella lights up and wriggles off the bar stool.

“I _love_ this song!” she declares and drags her husband off to the dance floor.

“Thank the gods,” Yuri muttered, taking Isabella’s spot at the bar and setting down his glass.

Otabek takes the seat next to him, having barely touched his lemon drop, “Having fun yet?”

“Oh yeah,” Yuri deadpanned, “So much so I’m already getting funned out.”

“We could go dance,” Otabek suggested.

“I’m not drunk enough for that.”

Otabek looks like he’s considering that statement and Yuri narrows his eyes in clear suspicion as he takes a drink with a muttered, “Don’t even think about it, Altin.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Otabek says mildly.

“But you were thinking it, which is enough,” Yuri said, “I’m not getting shitfaced tonight.”

Over Otabek’s shoulder he can see a lady in a slinky purple – or is it black? – dress making eyes at the figure skater’s back. Otabek notices that Yuri’s distracted and turns his head to follow his gaze. Of course, as soon as Otabek makes eye contact, the woman takes it as her cue to come over. The way she asks Otabek to dance is shameless and Yuri can tell he’s just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“He’d love to!” Yuri says cheerfully.

“Um…” Otabek says, glancing at Yuri.

“Go on,” Yuri gestures for him to ‘shoo’, “you crazy kids have fun.” Otabek gives him a look like, ‘is this because I called you a fetus earlier?’ and yes. Yes, it is.

She doesn’t waste time, putting her hand on Otabek’s arm and urging him off his stool and onto the dance floor. Yuri smoothly rescues the cocktail in Otabek’s hand before it can fall; it’s a matter of pride that perfectly good – if boring – booze doesn’t go to waste.

He continues to sip on his rum and Coke, nodding absently along to the music.

_. . . the thrill can’t get enough, these quiet nights need turning up . . . _

Not even two minutes and he can’t pick Jean-Jackass, Isabella, or Otabek out of the crowd but he can feel the subtle pull of the charm on his senses. He hopes Otabek will get his fill and be bored enough to go home before Yuri gets a headache.

“This seat taken?” Yuri looks up at the stranger who looks a bit startled, “Oh, I’m sorry. I just…thought you were a girl.”

A sharp thread of annoyance sours Yuri’s mood further. “Surprise,” he said dryly and turned on his stool to face the bar, draining the last of his drink. The stranger doesn’t seem at all deterred though and takes the empty seat next to him anyway.

“Mind if I buy you another one?”

“I think I’ve got it covered,” Yuri says dryly, picking up Otabek’s forgotten lemon drop and taking a sip. He’s pretty sure the skater won’t be back anytime soon, as it’s halfway through the next song and the cocktail will go stagnant at this rate.

“I like your accent,” Mr. Pushy tells him, “Are you from Russia or something?”

“Or something,” Yuri deadpanned.

“You know you’re really pretty,” Mr. Pushy continued, “for a guy, I mean.”

Yuri takes a breath through his nose, slams the rest of the cocktail and walks away before he turns the man into a gnat. A sudden tight grip on his wrist keeps him from getting too far and he grits his teeth against his knee-jerk reaction because he’s in a mundane club. He still feels the static on his tongue, tasting ozone along with the remnant sour tang of the lemon juice, his magic starting to rise against the perceived threat to his person. 

“Where are you going? I thought we were having a conversation,” Mr. Pushy whined.

“You know, I’m not surprised you’re single if this is how you treat every woman you come across,” Yuri spat, “Now _let go_.”

“Let me buy you a drink,” he insisted, swaying up and off the stool far into Yuri’s personal bubble, “to make it up to you.”

“Fuck off!” Yuri spat, his free hand lashing out in a swift punch. His bare knuckles sting when they make jarring contact with the stranger’s cheek, but it does the trick and he storms out of the club, spitting curses in Russian under his breath. The tug of the charm becomes a little more insistent with the increased distance between himself and Otabek, but he ignores it. His knuckles are red and starting to swell, and he chastises himself for aiming for the face.

_Should’ve gone for the throat_, he grumbled. The bones of the face were made to take a hit and protect the brain, at the very least he should’ve gone for the jaw or the closest limb. He can hear Victor’s disappointed, “Tsk tsk Yura, we’ve talked about this, haven’t we?” like the insufferable ass he is.

“Yuri!”

“What?” he snapped, continuing his determined stride across the parking lot, “Go back inside.”

“I saw what happened,” Otabek said, jogging to catch up, “Are you okay?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Yuri said, “I _am_ an adult, I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I don’t doubt it now,” Otabek lets out a dry chuckle, “You laid that guy out.”

“Oh good,” Yuri snapped, “Maybe he’ll have learned a very important lesson.”

Otabek’s gaze very clearly drops to where Yuri’s babying his knuckles and lets out a sigh, “We should probably get some ice on that.”

Yuri knows from frequently rummaging through Otabek’s kitchen that he has a plethora of ice packs that he keeps in the freezer at all times, and he wraps one of them in a small towel before handing it to Yuri.

“Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off,” Otabek says, “that should keep the swelling down.”

“Well aren’t you just a fountain of medical wisdom?” Yuri deadpanned.

“Skating can be hard on the body. Can’t remember the last time I went a week without having to ice a hip or a shoulder.”

Yuri grunts, recalling the hard fall he’d witnessed a few short nights ago when Otabek had been attempting one of those fancy jumps.

“Did you have fun, at least?” Otabek asked.

“Not really,” Yuri admitted, “Mundane clubs are…well, mundane.”

“What are magic clubs like then?”

Yuri snorted and adjusted the ice pack laying across his bruised knuckles, “For starters the booze is _way_ better.” Otabek huffed a short laugh. “The music is…different. Not better, just different. Especially in a faerie club.”

“Mm?”

“More…hypnotic? It’s hard to explain,” Yuri said, “They fucking _love_ to dance, the Fae. It’s much easier to get addicted to partying with them.”

“Maybe we should go sometime,” Otabek suggested.

Yuri makes a noncommittal hum and takes the ice pack off his hand to flex his fingers. He can tell nothing’s broken; he’ll just be a little sore and bruised for the next few days.

“Better?” Otabek asked.

“I’ve had worse,” Yuri said, then remembers that he has manners, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's totally incriminating footage of Yuri dancing somewhere. Just sayin'. 
> 
> Do you guys have any headcanons about this 'verse? I'm curious. 
> 
> Fun fact: human blood plasma is 92% water by volume. Stay healthy, stay hydrated, stay safe <3
> 
> Song credits: Countdown - Amber Liu (ft. LDN Noise)


	12. What the Cinnamon Toast Fuck is This?

_August 2024; Geneva_

He arrives at the café _way_ too early and he takes up one of the empty tables inside. It’s nice out, and everybody and their grandmother wants to sit on the patio to soak in the sunshine while they enjoy their lunch.

His knee bounces, sneaking glances out the window where the corporate building that serves as a façade for European Branch Headquarters is in full view. As far as he knows, based on the tidbits from history class, that building hasn’t moved or changed since the 70s. It looks like an ugly generic block of glass and steel, with no obvious company name anywhere on it. People’s eyes usually just skate past it to the corporate bank with the garish red logo.

He takes slow sips of his coffee and nibbles at the pastry he ordered while he waits. Being so close to EBHQ in a café that reminds him of the little spot he used to frequent with Team Victor back when he was a bratty intern – gods, thinking about himself at seventeen makes him cringe – is making him feel things. He packs up all those ugly little emotions fighting for real estate in his chest into a little ball and shoves it way down where it can’t bother him. 

A familiar red head of hair bobs past the front window before making its way inside and Mila makes her grand entrance with a large pair of sunglasses affixed to her face.

“Gods, I’ve got the _worst_ hangover,” she declared, taking a seat the table and lifting her sunglasses to rest atop her head. There’s no doubt in his mind that she recently fed – her face has more color and her eyes are clear but the bags under her eyes are still pronounced. He can see the remnants of faerie glitter in her hair.

“That’s what you get for partying with the fair folk,” Yuri snorted into his coffee.

“Ugh, it’s so fun, though,” Mila groaned, “even if that booze always fucks me up.” 

The waitress brings over a fresh mug of steaming black coffee and Mila throws her a wink, “_Danke_.” Yuri stares at her for a beat or two and she raises an eyebrow, “What?”

“Nothing,” Yuri said shortly, because it’s really none of his business whether or not Mila’s finally given up on her useless crush on his mentor that she’s had for five-ever. “Can you help me or not?”

“Depends on what you need help with,” Mila said, then took a sip of her coffee with a little sigh, “Ah, that’s some good shit right there.”

Yuri hands her the print-out from HM Land Registry’s website, “I need to find the person that has the current deed and planning properties for this plot.”

Mila takes it, “And here I thought you were gonna ask for something challenging.”

“And something else,” Yuri said, fishing the drive out of his pocket, “there’s supposed to be an EMR on here that I need.”

Finding it buried in his mail yesterday morning had immediately revised all of his plans to call Leo and ask him for his help with the deed. He’d practically forgotten about it in the midst of all of the other bullshit that’s happened since the impromptu raid on the clinic. Yuri’s got his fingers crossed that the HHN is too cocky to think that anybody has the capability of getting past the virtual security surrounding their servers.

Her eyebrows go up in interest, “Ooh, now _that’s_ what I’m talking about.” She makes grabby fingers for it and Yuri readily hands it over. “It’s an SSD, so it shouldn’t take me long to get the data off of it but getting access to those records might take a day.”

“Glad I could provide you with some entertainment,” Yuri deadpanned then crammed the rest of his pastry in his mouth.

“When it comes to you, kitten, I’m _always_ entertained,” Mila grinned. He rolled his eyes and pulled his cup a little closer. “Before I take off and get to sleuthing, may I ask what all of this is for? Just out of curiosity.”

Yuri debates telling her because she could easily look up the case file and find that it’s been closed. She can be clandestine but if she suspects he’s in trouble she’ll definitely go to Victor or Jade – or even _worse_, she’ll go to Lilia. But if he says nothing she’ll just go nosing around anyway and dig deeper than he wants her to.

“It’s a weird case,” he admits, scratching his eyebrow, “we don’t usually handle serial killers, but this one has been going after mundanes and supes both. Naturally, we got stuck with it.”

“What about Homicide?” Mila asked.

“They’ve put in their two cents, but this one’s all us,” Yuri said, reaching for his phone to check his notifications, raising an eyebrow when he looks at his screen.

Mr. Champion   
  
Want anything from the store?

He swipes the screen so he can type a fast reply and the phone is promptly yanked from his hands.

“Hey!”

“I’m _trying_ to have a conversation with you here,” Mila said, then she glances at the screen like the nosy bitch she is and her lip curls in a sly little smile. “Oh ho, Mr. Champion, eh?”

“None of your business, hag,” he spat, “Now _give it back_.”

“Is he _that_ good in bed?” Mila continued, “Seriously, with a nickname like that-“

“Good gods,” he complained, finally snatching his phone back, “Why must everything be about sex? It’s not like that. He’s a witness that I’m babysitting. That’s it.”

“Ooh, spicy,” Mila does a suggestive shimmy in her seat. 

He can feel his eye twitching, “I hate you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Mila said, “We should do this more often.”

“Hard pass,” Yuri immediately vetoed, “Never again. I need to get back to babysitting.”

“Is _that_ what the kids are calling it these days?” Mila said, her fangs almost exposed she’s grinning so hard, clearly enjoying herself way too much.

Yuri drains his coffee – because like fuck he’s wasting a perfectly good latte and all the money he spent on it – and says, “Call me when you’ve got my intel.” and leaves without further preamble.

He’s barely set foot on the other side of the Portal in Otabek’s apartment when his phone dings with another notification and he nearly chucks it across the complex when he sees the text message.

Mila   
  
;D

His eye twitches again while he types a fast response.

Mila   
  
I hate you.

He toes off his shoes and faceplants on the couch with a low exasperated groan.

Mila   
  
Hope you’re being safe. ;P    
  
Shut the fuck up.

Otabek comes back just as Yuri is enjoying muffling his cathartic screams of frustration into the throw pillows. He hears the skater pause and feels judgmental eyes boring into the back of his skull, but he keeps his face mashed into squashy synthetic cushioning until his lungs start to burn. But, Otabek doesn’t say a word – _That’s right, he _can_ be taught!_ – just goes back into the kitchen to start unloading the groceries and Yuri finally comes up for air.

“If you’re done, could you help me with the groceries?” Otabek says.

Yuri levels a glower over the back of the couch and flicks a hand lazily at the paper bags set on the floor by the entryway, indulging in a smug smile when he hears Otabek’s barely suppressed squawk of indignation when he finds himself surrounded by flying groceries. 

“Some _warning_ would be nice,” Otabek directs at him from the kitchen.

“Hey, you asked for help, I gave it,” Yuri pointed out, turning on the TV. He quickly loses interest in the drama playing out on screen and changes the channel, wrinkling his nose when it turns to the news. He doesn’t care about Canadian politics enough to keep watching and eventually he ends up searching through Netflix for something to keep him entertained instead. There’s the sound of Otabek fussing with the laundry in the background and then shutting himself in his room to shower and do whatever it is that world champions do in their spare time.

Eventually, Yuri’s stomach demands something more substantial than flaky café pastry and he hauls himself off the couch with a grumbling sigh to go rummaging through Otabek’s tiny kitchen.

There’s a fuckton of vegetables and meat, and he sees that Otabek’s gone and bought more fruit even though his strict diet plan specifies that he’s not allowed to have _any_ sugar whatsoever. Which means Otabek bought it for him even though Yuri didn’t request it, like they’re domestics or some shit.

_Fuckin’ weirdo_, Yuri frowned, pulling the vegetables out of the fridge along with a package of thawed chicken breast. Mila’s eyebrow waggle pops up unbidden behind his eyes and he cringes hard, nearly slicing his finger open while using the kitchen shears to cut up the chicken into even pieces.

Otabek’s got a stove-top wok amongst his (unused) kitchen supplies like he’s a functioning adult instead of a boring old man disguised as a bachelor in his mid-twenties that only uses the vegetable steamer and the tiny George Foreman grill to prepare his meals. Yuri snorts and sets the thing on the stove and goes foraging for the other stuff he needs.

The oil hisses and pops when the meat hits the pan, steam wafting from the stove and frizzing out his hair but it’s all in the name of not eating take out for the eighth time this week. He scoops out the meat into a separate bowl and dumps in the vegetables, giving them a little stir as they start to cook through. It’ll be nothing compared to Mrs. Katsuki’s _takikomi gohan_ – gods, his mouth waters just thinking about the magical things that woman can do with such simple ingredients – but it’ll do.

“What are you doing?” Otabek asked, having emerged from his room to investigate the source of the smell.

“Makin’ doilies,” Yuri rolled his eyes, “The fuck does it look like?”

“It smells good,” Otabek admits, hovering at the edge of the kitchen and Yuri wordlessly shoves a bowl of food at him.

Otabek doesn’t a say a damn thing about rice not being part of his stupid fucking diet and eats with near gusto, staring remorsefully into the bowl when it’s empty like he longs for the second helping he probably can’t have. Instead Otabek hesitantly approaches the sink where the dishes are being cleaned by the overenthusiastic sponge covered in suds and slowly sets his bowl down before backing away.

“It’s a sponge,” Yuri says, “it’s not gonna fucking bite you.”

“I don’t know, you could’ve magicked it into something else when I wasn’t looking,” Otabek retorted.

“Ah yes, behold the mighty sponge,” Yuri deadpanned, “Such fearsome. Much powerful.”

Otabek snorts, then pauses while looking incredibly shifty for a second or two, “But, seriously though, you didn’t-“

Yuri rolls his eyes so hard at that it’s a miracle they don’t pop right out of his head, “No. That’d be a fucking waste of magic.” Never mind that he shouldn’t even be doing magic when the marks of overuse haven’t healed yet. Most of them are still ugly red-purple and splotchy brown, only two have started to turn greenish yellow. He considers it a victory that the bruising hasn’t spread.

“Good to know,” Otabek nodded, “Well, goodnight.” He shuffles off back to his bedroom and shuts his door.

“It’s not even nine ‘o clock yet,” Yuri muttered, turning to face the TV. He finds a listing on Netflix that looks like it won’t bore him to tears, but he ends up dozing off somewhere between episode three or four anyway.

The living room is dimmed, only illuminated by the glow of the TV where the credits are rolling when he cracks open an eye to go rummaging for his phone. It continues to ring until he finally catches the corner of the device and blindly swipes the screen.

“’Lo?” he grumbled.

“Oh, did I wake you?” Mila asked.

“The fuck d’you think?” he grouches back, pulling his phone away from his face to glance at the time, “Fucks sake.” he keeps his voice low so he doesn’t wake up Otabek who has practice in a few hours.

“Hey, you told me to call when I got your intel,” Mila said, “So, come get your intel, kitten.” She hangs up and Yuri buries his face in the couch cushions to muffle his exasperated groan.

His jeans are cold and crumpled from laying on the floor and he yanks those on, before grabbing his shoes and opening a Portal to EBHQ. The lobby is in its usual state of barely controlled chaos with Exorcists flowing back and forth between departments in all directions. He can hear some sort of alarm – fire, most likely – going off in the Analyst Department and there are CSIs scrambling in their blue overcoats.

He slinks off to HUNTER, tucking his Tags under the collar of his shirt and finds Mila alone in Team Victor’s office on the fifteenth floor. It’s way too much space for Team Victor who are just four members and all of them take up a fraction of the allotted real estate with their desks within easy reach, so they don’t have to shout information to each other across the floor. He remembers hearing once that this was an administration office with cubicle areas for the department managers, before they were spread out across HUNTER to act as handlers (read: babysitters) for the various Units. It was no secret that Team Victor was placed under Yakov’s care due to Victor not being held in the best regard by the Council who still saw him as a mad dog on the Agency’s chain.

For a moment he lingers in the doorway, smacked in the face with all the memories of shitty snacks, insane working hours, and being shooed off to bed on school nights only to come back the next day after classes had let out and discover he’d missed all the good stuff.

Yuri shuts the door behind him and pulls up a chair as he approaches Mila’s desk, “Alright, hag. Have at it.”

“Well, aren’t we just a ray of sunshine,” Mila said cheerfully, “Here.” she hands him her half-empty Starbucks.

“The fuck is this?” he sips at it despite its unfortunately dark color and wrinkles his nose at the bitterness of the coffee. It’s smooth but unsweetened and it makes his tastebuds cry out in agony.

“Nitro cold brew,” Mila said, “The good shit. If that doesn’t wake you up, nothing will.” He takes one more mouthful and sets it back on the desk, trying to suppress the urge to gag.

“Where is everyone?” he assumes Georgi is downstairs helping with the chaos, but Katsudon and his pet idiot could be lounging on the beach in Santa Monica somewhere or some shit.

“That’s classified,” Mila said.

“And you’re still here because…?”

“I’m the point man.” Ah. No wonder she agreed to help him. She’s been sitting here bored waiting for some kind of shit to hit the fan while her Unit members are in deep cover.

“Right. You were saying?”

Mila turns the laptop so he can see the screen more easily and launches into a brief explanation of how EHRs work, “Back in the olden days, they used paper charting, now they use computerized systems to store patient data and yada yada yada. Now, EHRs can store that data in one of two ways: local server or a cloud.”

He nods to show that he’s following along, the mouthful of caffeine definitely starting to hit him and clear the sleep fog from his brain.

“This EHR,” she points to a little blue icon on the screen, “at first glance runs on a localized server, but I found something interesting.”

“And what’s that?”

“It’s a hybrid. Uncommon but not unheard of,” Mila said, she uses her mouse to circle the icon that houses the patient charts that Dr. Ashworth had been working on, “If I open this up-” she double clicks, waits for it to load and then does some type of magic that logs her in. Yuri’s not familiar with EMRs in any capacity, but the screen looks mostly empty.

“Looks like a whole lotta nothing,” Yuri said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “How does this help me?”

“Hold your horses, kitten, I’m getting there,” Mila said, “Look.” She does some clicking around and Yuri barely follows it at all, but then there are names and colors and words on the screen, “It’s an active tracking board.”

“How in the fuck…?” he breathed, “You sure you’re not a witch?”

“Pretty sure, kitten,” Mila snorted, “Now, pay attention. When we connect to the old server,” click, “there’s nothing. It’s been locked. There’s no patient records, the tracking board is empty, the whole interface is basically useless.”

“So…I can’t get access to those old records?” something inside him rolls over in despair because how the fuck are they going to get those families closure if they can’t identify people?

“For now, I’m gonna tell you not to hold your breath,” Mila says honestly, “I’ll keep working on getting past that firewall, but for now you’ve got something to work with.”

“Alright,” Yuri sighed, rubbing crust out of his eyes, “Did you find anything about the deed?”

“Oh yeah,” Mila sits up, “This is where it gets _juicy_.” She sets the laptop aside and logs in to her main computer, “You know how that lot is listed for sale, but it hasn’t been sold?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says slowly, “Why?”

“I did some digging. Got sucked down a rabbit hole of sorts,” Mila says, “Technically it’s an international conglomerate that owns the lot right now, which can get really really messy.”

Explains why there’s no real public listing for it. If the HHN were going to sell they’d want to sell it to another company that can give them an offer well worth their while. He conjures a notepad and grabs a pen from Mila’s desk and scribbles notes as fast he can while she talks about how said international conglomerate has got its fingers everywhere in the medical industry – pharmaceuticals, medical equipment, and multiple healthcare companies that have chains of hospitals all over the globe.

“A couple of them have magical ties,” Mila said, “The CEO of this pharmaceutical company comes from a long line of Earth witches.” Yuri notes the name and looks down at the mess of barely legible scribbles on the paper, hoping he’ll be able to make some sense of this later. “This is where I went down aforementioned rabbit hole.”

Mila clicks around until she pulls up a page for some healthcare corporation, “I started looking into the CEOs, compiling a list of the potentially shady people and this lady is definitely shady. Like, doesn’t exist before 2005 shady.”

The woman smiling blandly in the professionally taken photo doesn’t look like anything special – brown hair, brown eyes, black blazer against a boring blue backdrop – but the longer he looks at her photo the more unnerved he is.

“Her real name isn’t Karen Gonzalez,” Mila said, “It’s Ashlyn Estrada and she’s supposed to be dead.”

“And you found this out…how?” Yuri said.

“Facial recognition,” Mila says casually, “She doesn’t come up in the criminal databases, but she’s got an old personnel file.”

“Wait, what?” Yuri gapes.

“She worked in an IMC hospital in Germany for a couple years,” Mila said, “then she left to work at some mundane surgical center in the U.S., I’m assuming for better pay.” Mila pulls up an article from 2003 where underneath the headline there’s a building ablaze, surrounded by huge fire engines and people in uniforms trying to put the fire out.

“So, she faked her death and now she’s the CEO of some bigshot corporation?” Yuri said. A bigshot corporation that probably has experts who know how to fudge the numbers just enough but not too much just to make it complicated to build a case for embezzling.

So, brains? Check.

Resources? Double check.

“Only thing I don’t get is M.O.,” Yuri said aloud, “what would be her motivation for doing all of this?”

“People are…complicated,” Mila said, leaning back her chair, “Her dad was an Exorcist. Maybe _he_ was involved in shady shit and she wanted to get away from all that?”

“By faking her death and forging a new identity?” Yuri raised an eyebrow, “That makes no sense. Why can’t things be...simple?”

“I ask myself that question all the time, kitten,” Mila laughs dryly, “I think, in time, you’ll come to appreciate that every case is a little different. The job wouldn’t be as interesting otherwise.”

He rubs his forehead, feeling a headache building behind his eyes, “Is there anything else I should know while I’m here and I’ve got your full undivided attention?”

“Look at you, using big boy words,” Mila chuckled. He glares at her. “I’ll keep working on trying to get access to the server. It’s a big ‘maybe’, so fingers crossed.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t scrap the whole thing,” Yuri mutters, tucking the notepad under his arm.

“I’m not,” Mila said, “EHRs are expensive and time-consuming to make. Building a reliable interface to store and access patient data while supporting government level encryption to protect that information isn’t easy. Then you gotta find a way to store all of it.”

“They panicked once they realized we had the drive,” Yuri said, imagining one of the bigwigs finding the dismantled computer and Dr. Ashworth gone, “locked the current server and built a new one.”

“It's a possibility,” Mila agreed, then paused with a funny look on her face.

“What?” Yuri sighed, “You have a lightbulb moment?”

“Nothing,” she says, “Just…thinking is all.”

“Well that must hurt,” he replied, standing up, “might wanna stop before you do permanent damage.” Mila just laughs until she’s giggle-snorting and takes several long sips of her coffee before she can calm down.

It’s nearing five in the morning in Toronto, which means Otabek is probably awake and packing a bland lunch and making himself another awful protein shake. It means Yuri’s got work to do while Otabek is sequestered away in the relative safety of the ice rink with his coach and fellow athletes behind layers of magical protection.

“Thanks, hag,” he says, tucking a stubborn lock of hair behind his ear, “Guess I owe you one.”

“Don’t be silly, Yura,” Mila waves him off, “You’re one of us. We take care of each other.”

_You don’t mean that_, he wants to say. _You don’t_.

He leaves with his notes tucked firmly under his arm and those pesky feelings from less than twenty-four hours ago trying to crawl their way up from the dark sub-sub-sub-basement hole he buried them in. Gritting his teeth, he kicks those feelings back down and demands that they stay put for good this time.

Yuri stops in London to shower and change his clothes, feeling gross after falling asleep in them and he changes into items that are sturdy and practical. Hair in a ponytail he finds the address for that surgical center and opens a Portal.

He balks at the boiling heat on the other side, his skin immediately prickling with sweat. It’s very early morning in Arizona – the sky hasn’t even begun to turn grey with the first rays of sunrise – but it’s already sweltering, and he plucks at his t-shirt to fan himself.

Yuri squints at the sign facing the road, making out the words ‘Medical Plaza’. The building’s husk still stands, boarded up with a fence around it and multiple signs tacked on the chain link for a number to call if anybody’s interested in purchasing the lot. He can’t imagine anyone wanting to live, let alone buy land in this fucking hellscape. He hops the fence, landing catlike on the other side and crosses the cracked asphalt to what he hopes is suite number 3104.

There's a directory plaque mostly attached to one of the stucco pillars, and he conjures a light to get a better look, immediately recoiling when he sees a small gathering of scorpions relaxing on top of the scorched plaque. He shivers at how creepy looking they are, from their little stingers to their pincers they must’ve evolved from demons. How else would coretan demons have tails that look similar? 

He crosses around to the back where there aren’t any live cameras and makes himself a door to get inside. The opening seals back up behind him when he enters the building, directing his light forward and up to better illuminate where he is.

He’s standing on a bed of crumbled faded ash and dirt and he can hear the whisper of cars rushing by through the gaping holes in the ceiling. He swallows hard as he takes a step forward, a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like James telling him that he’s being foolish and taking unnecessary risks.

_She burned this place down and then forged a new identity_, he retorts, _Why? Why would she do that? I need a motive if I’m going to make this theory work. _

It could all be a coincidence, but there’s too many gaps. Nobody just fakes their death on whim. He can feel that he’s on the right track this time. No false trails, no dead ends.

He brings his light down, not wanting to risk someone seeing it from the road and presses forward. One hollowed out hallway just has crumbling doorframes and ashes in place of rooms – offices most likely, based on the spaces between them.

The surgical rooms have fared better without all that flammable office furniture, leaving scorched monitors and warped surgical tables. He shivers, wondering if this is where the HHN started and startles when he feels the barest tickle in the webspace between his fingers. It’s just the aether, unconsciously summoned and he rolls his eyes at himself.

He still allows the aether to give him a handgun, just in case. He keeps the muzzle pointed at the floor, grip held firmly with two hands, like he was taught.

To his right he hears a faint _ding_ and he stiffens.

_Ding . . . ding . . ._

It’s shrill and it’s coming from the monitor. The display is blackened from where the blaze had damaged the screen, but he can make out the faintest glow behind the scorch marks and he swallows hard, taking a deep breath in through his nose.

“Come out,” he says into the dead air, “I’m an Exorcist, I can help you.”

Silence.

The monitor flickers and the glow fades. He doesn’t loosen his grip on the gun or banish it into the aether, waiting with bated breath for another sign that the Geist is willing to be civil. He pulls the light closer to him, a simple protection spell on the tip of his tongue in the stillness.

His heart pounds in his ears and ten beats go by…another ten…then twenty…and he takes a step forward-

_Ding . . . ding . . ._

Translation: no further. No more.

“Kind of a shitty resting place,” he comments aloud, taking another step and the dinging of the monitor gets more insistent. “_Lucerna sepio._” the light affixes to a point over his head, casting him in a protective dome. He can see the sky just starting to turn from black to royal blue from a wide burned out opening in the ceiling above him.

And then the monitor goes silent and the air unnaturally still.

“_And if I don’t want your help?_”

There’s no face or body with the voice and it’s too close for comfort. It rattles and howls like a lonely gale force wind, and yet it’s as level and soft as a whisper. It’s like the Geist is standing next to him, just outside the tight protective cocoon Yuri’s formed around himself. 

“Then that’s fine,” Yuri says, “I’ll leave you in peace. I just wanted to know what happened here.”

In his peripherals he sees the cardiac monitor flicker and die. The crumbled ashes float on the air like tainted snow, the particles catching the radiance from his little light as they float on by.

“_I can show you._”

The Geist’s voice is sly, prickling at the skin on the back of his neck and crawling like a centipede down his spine, then –

_Cool air hits his forearms where the antibacterial suds have been spread up to his elbows and the air becomes colder still when he rinses with warm water and raises his gaze to look at his reflection. _

_The collar of his turquoise surgical scrubs is slightly askew but there’s no time to fix it now. He dons the sterile gown and gloves and turns to help the surgeon – _

_They call time out and push the sedatives first before the paralytics. The patient’s eyes glaze over before his lids flutter and drift closed._

_“How many megs of Roc?” _

_“Give me another fifteen – “ _

_His eyes water from the smoke and the heat presses in from all sides like he’s wearing a plastic bag over his head. His head goes foggy, lightheaded from the lack of oxygen and another hard cough – hard enough to hurt – sends him to his knees. _

_“Help…please…” _

He doesn’t remember finding his way outside. His throat feels raw and he’s hunched over on his knees fighting for breath like he just ran the Boston Marathon.

“What the fuck?” he breathes, his cheeks tacky with sweat – maybe tears? He has no clue. His teeth are chattering even though it’s probably forty Celsius and it’s already getting warmer with the sun peeking over the horizon. “Thanks for nothing,” he croaks, knowing the Geist can hear him then promptly retches all over the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found Family Trope Continues to Drag Angry Cat-Enthusiast In By the Ankles. More news at 10.
> 
> Anybody who's ever lived in Arizona for an extended period of time is intimately familiar with the excruciating summers. It's barely May right now and we're already seeing temperatures in the triple-digits (that's in Fahrenheit, btw). Also, scorpions. 
> 
> Stay healthy, stay hydrated, stay safe, and avoid scorpions. <3 
> 
> (I really really _really_ hate scorpions.)


	13. Thou Is a Crusty Batch of Nature

_September 2024; Toronto_

“Stop,” Lauren says, “Just…stop.”

She sounds exasperated. Otabek digs his toepick into the ice, feeling about as done as Lauren looks.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded, “You mastered this a week ago, now it’s like you’re a novice.”

He shrugs, unable to offer her an excuse. At least nothing that doesn’t sound lame or like a pathetic ploy for sympathy in a place where there’s none to be found. He’s appreciated Lauren not handling him with kid gloves while rebuilding his foundations so he can put on a good show come the next season. He wants to tell her that he feels like hoping for a comeback is useless and all his achievements will take a backseat to his disappearance and miraculous return.

But Lauren is not his therapist and there’ll be plenty of time to unpack all of this at his regularly scheduled appointment. 

_Solid boundaries, realistic expectations_.

Lauren purses her lips, totally unimpressed, “Take ten.” It’s nonnegotiable and he skates around to the gate to wipe snow off his blades and snap on his guards. There’s an unoccupied bench out of the way of the other skaters where he can stew in his shortcomings for his mandatory break.

He knows he’s falling farther behind. He’s twenty pounds shy of his weight goal no matter how much red meat and peanut butter toast he shoves into his mouth, and as soon as he feels he’s re-mastered an element there’s an error in his technique. He’ll have to learn jumps from scratch when Lauren feels he’s got the base elements down again. There’ll be hours in the harness and even more hours on a trampoline. It’ll be months before he gets his triples and quads back.

His throat feels inexplicably tight and he works to swallow around the lump of tangled-up emotion sitting on his windpipe, taking a long drink from his water bottle until he feels like he’s got that itchy urge to cry under control.

He wants more than anything to prove himself wrong and take the skating world by storm once more before he retires to DJ raves out in the desert somewhere, never mind that he finds it harder and harder to find even the slightest bit of motivation to remix something or throw together a simple playlist.

The ice is still waiting for him when the mandatory ten minutes are up and he pulls himself up by his metaphorical bootstraps to get back on it. Lauren watches him with eagle eyes, her hands tucked in the pockets of her coat as she watches him resume center ice and try the spin again.

“Better,” she declared, “Again.”

Practice continues in the same vein and he finds his frustration lessened by the time it ends.

“We’ll call this progress,” Lauren said, and he nods. She sighs, “I know this is frustrating, for both of us. We both want you to be at the same level you were in March, but it’ll take time and there’s bound to be hiccups along the way, alright?”

“Yes Coach," he sighed. 

“You’re doing well, better than I would’ve expected,” she assured him, “I still think you should’ve taken more time off, but you’ve been in the game long enough to understand your own limits.”

He’s not sure whether he’s been scolded or not (he’s leaning towards the latter), but he leaves practice feeling a little better, though a part of him still wants to drown his pain in cheap Chinese food and call it a night.

Otabek is greeted by the sight of a disgruntled Warlock eating vanilla ice cream straight from the tub upon opening the door. Yuri’s got some of his hair in a sloppy ponytail, while the rest hangs in his face and he’s wearing the cursed yoga pants. He looks like he had a rougher day than Otabek did – his eyes are slightly puffy, and the shadows underneath are stark against his pale skin. There’s a weariness in his face that makes Otabek wonder how he ever thought Yuri was eighteen.

He’s not entirely sure what time Yuri left this morning but he’s fairly sure it was well before Otabek’s alarm had even gone off. The wan cast to his skin suggests that he hasn’t slept much – probably hasn’t been sleeping well for a long time.

_He’s been fighting monsters_, Otabek remembers, _for a very long time_.

It makes his own problems seem paltry in comparison.

He nudges the door shut behind him and toes off his shoes, padding across the floor to set his bag on top of the washing machine before shutting himself in his room for a long overdue shower. When he comes out to make dinner, Yuri is still sitting on the couch.

There’s no chance of him replicating the simple stir-fry Yuri made last night, so he sticks to the usual: plain grilled chicken breast with steamed vegetables. He’s not sure if Yuri’s had a more substantial meal than the tub of ice cream he’s currently buried in, but he still makes enough for two.

“Hey,” he says. Yuri doesn’t respond, and he leans around the side of the couch finding him staring blankly at the television. “Hey,” he repeats.

“What?” Yuri snapped. Otabek can feel the hair on his arms prickling in response to the sudden increase in static surrounding the Warlock.

“Uh, there’s food,” Otabek said, “If you want it.” His eyes flick unwillingly to the tub still cradled in Yuri’s lap, “Real food.”

Yuri sullenly shoves another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, and Otabek just shrugs and takes a seat on the couch with his dinner in hand.

_You can lead a horse to water and all that jazz_.

He doesn’t at all recognize the show currently on TV, but it makes for decent background noise while he eats his (unfortunately plain) dinner. Yuri is a forlorn presence in his peripherals, sitting in a despondent criss-cross-apple-sauce heap on the sofa and the silence between them is heavy and awkward. Otabek eats his dinner quietly, then puts the leftovers away and cleans his dishes before going to bed.

He lays there in the dark for what feels like hours. He can hear the low indeterminable murmur of the television and, eventually, what sounds like Yuri shoving the empty ice cream container into the trash can.

More and more often he’s been finding himself lying awake waiting for sleep to come, his brain and body refusing to get the message that he’s been active all day and now it’s time to rest so he can do it all over again first thing tomorrow. More grueling off-ice training at the gym before an equally grueling practice. He wonders if maybe he’s getting too used to his routine, or maybe’s he’s afraid of falling asleep.

The nightmares are…a little unnerving, but more than his discomfort at the thought of ending up in that weird dreamscape he’d really just like to get on with falling asleep, so it can finally be the next day and maybe he’ll feel better about the future. He rolls over onto the other half of the bed where the sheets are still cool and he closes his eyes, hoping his brain will get the message.

He glances at his cheap dollar-store alarm clock, sees the time and sighs. He’s been laying here for nearly an hour already – if the Sandman was going to come, he would’ve done so already. He gets out of bed and yanks on some clothes, then pads out of his bedroom over to the washing machine where he keeps his skates.

“Going somewhere?”

He stops and looks at Yuri when he’s halfway to the front door, the bag holding his skates in hand. The Warlock is looking at him in faintly annoyed suspicion like Otabek was attempting to be sneaky (which he wasn’t).

“The rink,” Otabek said, then blinked, “Wanna come?”

Yuri looks like he very much wants to continue wallowing in his own angst; his mouth is pursed like he swallowed a lemon, but he opens what looks like a small Portal. Otabek stares at it, getting glimpses of what looks like a closet on the other side. Yuri doesn’t disappear through it, just simply reaches through and grabs what he needs.

_Pretty sure that breaks some laws of physics_, he thinks, some part of his brain aware that what he’s seeing doesn’t make any sense. The Portal closes and Yuri’s got his shirt halfway off before Otabek realizes what he’s looking at and politely averts his eyes. A part of him is surprised that Yuri’s so trim after seeing the Warlock put away an entire pizza in a single sitting. He knows Yuri must work out – there’s that time he found the Warlock passed out on the floor in his workout clothes – but there’s only so much cardio can do, right?

“Must be all the magic,” he murmurs, _burns a lot of calories_. 

“What?”

“I was just…thinking out loud,” Otabek says.

“Think a little quieter or say what you want to say,” Yuri snapped. The rustling of fabric stops so Otabek, feeling it might be safe to look over, watches him cross the floor in well-worn jeans.

“Does magic burn a lot of calories?” Otabek finally asked. Yuri stops in the middle of pulling on his shoes to give him a weird look.

“I dunno,” he said.

“I just…you eat a lot,” Otabek said.

“You got a problem with that?” Yuri challenged.

“Not really,” Otabek said, “you’re just so skinny, I was wondering where you put it all.”

“I’ve got a hollow leg,” Yuri deadpanned, “Are we going or what?”

“You’re gonna want a jacket,” Otabek told him. Yuri grumbled, but opened another small Portal, reaching through and grabbing a cheetah print hoodie.

The girls at the front desk recognize him when he walks in with Yuri and tell him that the East Rink is free. Otabek can see some of the hockey players running drills in the West Rink even though it’s late and every sane athlete is at home in bed right now.

“You do this often?” Yuri asked, watching him lace into his skates.

“Only when I can’t sleep,” Otabek said, hands tying the knot and pulling resolutely at the strings with practiced ease, “I’ve tried running, but it doesn’t set my mind at ease like this does.”

That inexplicable knot of tension inside of him loosens when his blades touch the freshly smoothed ice. He takes a few practice laps, his feet moving into a loose approximation of his step-sequence from the routine that had nabbed him another world championship. It feels like an eternity ago even though it was only a few months. He can barely remember the high of another medal well-earned, the gratification of hard work paid off. Instead it’s buried under the memory of cloying cigarette smoke and the bland beeping of an infusion pump.

He shuts his eyes against the sting of cool air during the camel spin – he’ll need to visit the physiotherapist tomorrow; his adductor will be bothering him come morning – and he gives himself over to muscle memory, barely remembering to mark the jumps, until he finds himself at center ice again in the final pose. There’s no roaring applause or even JJ’s familiar shout of approval from the sidelines.

“Show off,” Yuri calls from the sideboard, his arms folded on top of the wall while he watches.

“Wanna try?” Otabek asked.

“Try what? That?” Yuri snorts, gesturing vaguely to the ice where Otabek’s carved his routine, “Yeah I totally have a death wish.” 

“I’ll teach you,” Otabek said, “It’ll be easy.”

“Says the World Champion,” Yuri deadpanned. 

“What’s your shoe size?” Otabek asked.

He gets Yuri a pair of skates from the rental desk and hands them to the Warlock who eyes them with disgust.

“Do I even want to know who’s been wearing these?”

“Probably not,” Otabek admitted.

Yuri wrinkles his nose and takes the skates, but he doesn't immediately sit and put them on. His lips move, forming syllables without sound, and in a blink the skates look much cleaner than they did thirty seconds ago. And while Otabek is fairly confident that Yuri is capable of tying his own shoes, he’s also very weak to temptation and helps Yuri get laced in.

“If the skates are too loose, you can end up getting hurt,” Otabek explained, tugging on the laces with a practiced grip, “want to make sure there’s enough ankle support.”

“I guess you’re the expert,” Yuri mumbled, and gets to his feet when the laces are tied. “It’s like wearing heels,” he says, sounding surprised and Otabek’s brain nearly short-circuits, “This might be okay.”

“Um…”

Of course, Yuri’s earlier opinion is immediately reversed once his blades actually touch ice.

Otabek has to give him credit for not using magic to cheat because he’s pretty sure there are all kinds of spells that would improve balance and make skating a complete cake walk. Instead, Yuri clings to the wall and his knees wobble like a baby giraffe’s.

“Don’t you fucking dare laugh, Altin,” Yuri snarled.

“Not even a chuckle,” Otabek promised, schooling his face, “Here, you’ll never learn this way.” He holds out his hands and Yuri eyes him with suspicion before slowly taking first one hand then other off the wall and holding onto Otabek like his life depends on it.

“I’ve got you,” Otabek reassured, “Lock your ankles, and straighten your knees. If you keep your head up it’ll be easier.” He puts all of his focus into not letting Yuri fall because it’s hella awkward supporting someone who is a full head and a half taller.

“Now what, genius?” Yuri huffed.

“Now you just sort of walk,” Otabek said.

“This…doesn’t feel right,” Yuri said, taking a few ginger steps forward.

“It will,” Otabek said, “Keep going. I’ve got you.”

Yuri huffs and his grip on Otabek’s hands tightens for a second. By the time they get halfway around the rink, Yuri’s started to figure out how to glide and push off, and his death grip is slowly easing up.

“That’s it,” Otabek encouraged, “You’ve got it.”

“Okay,” Yuri grumbled, keeping his eyes resolutely forward, his gaze boring holes into Otabek’s forehead.

“Do you want me to let go?” Otabek asked. He’s pretty sure the circulation in his fingers has been totally cut off and the numbness is starting to become alarming.

“Just…don’t go too far,” Yuri mumbles, looking embarrassed, but he maintains his balance on the ice easily once Otabek lets go and rubs some life back into his fingers before tucking his hands in his pockets and gliding backwards while Yuri awkwardly skates forward. He lacks the finesse of a trained ice dancer but the awareness of his limbs in space is still there.

“See? Not so hard,” Otabek said.

“I can still hit you from here,” Yuri threatened, continuing to shuffle along in awkward half-pushes and not-quite stops with his arms slightly held out for better balance, and his eyes stubbornly fixed forward though Otabek can tell by the little dip of his chin that he desperately wants to look at what his feet are doing.

“I had a question for you.”

“If it’s about the calories thing, I told you I don’t have a fuckin’ clue,” Yuri said, “Ask Katsudon, he’s a biologist or some shit.”

“I have…all kinds of questions about that last part,” Otabek said slowly, then gave his head a little shake, “but it’s not about the calories thing, it’s about a different thing.”

“Okay…?” Yuri eyes him.

“You said demons exist right? Is…possession possible?” Otabek felt a bit like he was treading troubled water here, especially when Yuri had obviously just had a harrowing experience that they probably were never going to unpack.

Yuri lets himself glide to slow stop, green eyes searching, and brows furrowed, “Why?”

“Call it a morbid curiosity,” Otabek says. Yuri gives him a look that he probably reserves for suspects, a look that says, ‘Your bullshit can be smelled from a mile away’ but he doesn’t call him out.

Yuri runs his tongue over his teeth, “I’ve only ever witnessed one case. It’s rare. The circumstances have to be right for possession to take place.” He gets a distant look in his eyes, like he’s remembering, “I bet that fight was ugly. I wasn’t an Exorcist yet, so I didn’t get to stick around for all of it, but…basically, most cases involve a Summoning gone wrong.”

Otabek doesn’t realize he’s come to a stop while listening, his brain at first conjuring ridiculous images of people robed in black standing around some sort of pentagram and chanting before he puts a record-scratching halt to that. 

“You think you’re possessed, Altin?” Yuri wonders, and Otabek blinks, wondering when Yuri got so close. He can feel the slightest bit of static surrounding the Warlock and his eyes are like scalpels – flaying him open and seeing through to the secrets underneath.

“I’m not sure,” Otabek admits, “These nightmares I keep having…sometimes I wonder if I’ve got a monster inside my head.” The ever-present patch of darkness that may or may not be sentient, lingering at the edge of the dreamscape and _watching_. Even though it has no eyes, Otabek’s can still _feel_ its gaze. 

“Rest assured, demons don’t possess mundanes,” Yuri said, voice low, “Your bodies are too weak to handle them. They need magic to sustain their presence in this world as well as a strong spirit to torture as part of their well-balanced diet. You’d either be in a psychiatric hospital or dead by now.”

“That’s…reassuring,” Otabek says weakly. 

“Besides, even if you _were_ possessed,” Yuri said, “you wouldn’t know it. You’d be in Thrall. Your consciousness suspended or consumed by your lodger.”

“Oh.” Otabek was starting to feel faintly sick now and Yuri – spotting this like a shark smells blood – smiles. It’s all sharp and saccharine like he’s _enjoying_ Otabek’s discomfort.

“Maybe you’ll finally learn, Altin,” Yuri said, “to stop prying into our world.” He gives him a once-over, eyes flicking up and down so fast before they’re fixing back onto his face. “It’s too ugly for you.”

“Maybe you should let me decide that,” he said flatly, trying not to get offended at the fact that someone three years his junior is trying to warn him off, like he's not an adult capable of making his own decisions. Yuri raises a fine blond brow. “There’s plenty of ugly in the mundane world too.” The argument sounded weaker out loud somehow and Yuri let out a snort.

“You really have no sense of self-preservation, huh? The less you know about magic, the better it’ll turn out for you. Once this is over, I won’t be around to babysit you.” His guts twisted inexplicably at that. “Not everyone is as nice as I am, Altin. There are some that would gladly use your knowledge as an excuse to murder you.”

“Boy, you don’t mince words,” Otabek deadpanned.

“I wouldn’t be alive if I did,” Yuri said bluntly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his Agency-issued jacket and blowing a disobedient lock of hair out of his face.

“Right,” Otabek nodded, “forgot. Wizard cop.”

In hindsight, it’s amazing really how Yuri managed to move so fast on skates when he’s never skated a day in his life. He easily hooks the back of his blade behind Otabek’s foot and yanks him off balance. The sting of landing on the ice vibrates through his tailbone and for a moment he lays there, completely stunned before sitting up.

“You’re fucking lucky there’s CCTV here,” Yuri said, pushing off to skate around where Otabek is still sitting in an indignant heap, “Next time, I’ll just disable the cameras and keep you in a hamster cage for a day.”

Otabek gets to his feet, dusting snow off his rump, and turns to watch Yuri continue on his awkward circuit around the rink before pushing off to catch up, his skates scratching against the ice when he comes to a stop next to the Exorcist.

“You’re really getting the hang of this,” Otabek commented. Yuri snorted.

“Stop sounding so impressed,” Yuri said, “You’re the one who can do fancy tricks.”

“I can teach you some more,” Otabek offered, then glanced down at the rental skates, “Probably should get you your own pair of skates though.”

Yuri barked a laugh, “So they can sit in my closet and gather dust because I’ll never have the time? No thanks. I’d rather eat that money. But go on, _sensei_, teach me.”

He shows Yuri how to do swizzles, his blades scratching into the ice, “You almost wanna invert your ankles to dig your inside edge in.”

“This is fuckin’ weird,” Yuri declared, his knees almost knocking together.

“Here,” Otabek said and showed him again. This time, Yuri’s knees go too _wide_ and he collapses into a split with a surprised squawk.

“What did I fuckin’ say about laughing?” Yuri snarled when a snort escapes Otabek before he can contain it.

“I’m sorry,” Otabek fights to school his expression, “Your _face_-“

Yuri gives him the stink eye, awkwardly getting back onto his feet. He wobbles dangerously for a moment but rights himself before trying it again with a little grumble. Otabek applauds him, “You get a gold star.” Yuri flipped him off and did another swizzle.

“Show me something else,” Yuri demanded.

“Like what?” Otabek asked.

“I dunno,” Yuri said, shrugging a shoulder, “What are you working on right now?”

“Right now? I’m working on getting back into competition shape,” Otabek said, “I don’t have a short or a free put together since I’m not competing this season.”

“Mm,” Yuri hummed, that little furrow between his eyebrows deepening and Otabek releases a little sigh.

There’s no music, just the scratch and scrape of his blades on the ice and muscle memory. His World’s exhibition had been more lighthearted and fun, instead of the heavy orchestral pieces he erred towards for his main skate. He forgets to check the jump, launching himself into the air. His weight comes down wrong and his ankle buckles. 

“Shit,” he curses through his teeth, sitting up and grimacing when his ankle throbs.

“I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how you do it,” Yuri called from his spot across the ice, “Can you get up?”

Otabek makes a valiant attempt, and pain immediately screams up his leg when he tries to get his right foot underneath him to stand, “That’ll be a ‘no’.”

“Fuck,” Yuri cursed, “let me get these things off first.”

Otabek stays put, waiting for Yuri to change into his sneakers and then shuffle out onto the ice to help him up. It’s disconcerting when Yuri literally levitates him over the little step to get him off the ice, his body weightless without his permission. He gingerly removes the boot and the ankle immediately starts to swell.

“Well, shit,” Yuri clicked his tongue, “Better get you to a hospital, huh?”

“Pretty sure it’s a sprain,” Otabek told him, though he can’t remember a simple sprain hurting this damn much.

“Well you can be ‘pretty sure’ after we get a professional opinion, hm?”

He calls a Lyft and Yuri helps him hobble out of the rink, loudly complaining about his weight the entire time, “Gods, you’re fucking _heavy_. What the fuck have you been eating?”

“Dry chicken and broccoli, mostly,” Otabek answered. Yuri lets out a disbelieving snort. 

It’s a thirty-minute wait at the nearest Urgent Care, and the physician’s assistant that sees him clicks her tongue when she gets a good look at Otabek’s ankle, gloved hands prodding carefully.

“We’ll get some imaging to make sure,” she said, “but I definitely think you sprained it. Did you want anything for pain while you’re here?”

“Just some ice,” Otabek said, “Please.”

It’s another forty-five minutes before he finds out his ankle is not broken, “I can’t see tendons on an x-ray,” the PA informs him seriously, “but you’ve still got good movement, so my suspicion for a tendon injury is low. I would still follow up with an orthopedist.” The rest is a spiel he’s heard before – rest, ice, compress, and elevate. Then she tells him he should stay off the ankle for about three weeks and Otabek resolves to make peace with the fact that he’s going to be in _a lot_ of trouble with his coach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to me that I've uploaded...a lot, in the span of just five short days. Weirdly enough, I feel like I'm almost inconveniencing people by uploading so much. Heh heh....
> 
> Stay healthy, stay hydrated, stay safe. <3


	14. Fuck Your Chicken Strips

_September 2024; Las Vegas_

The menu of specials for the day had no prices posted and the maître d’ looked dead inside. She stood at a little podium with a reservation book and a fountain pen – who the fuck owns a fountain pen these days? – checking off the names of the patrons who’d reserved a table ahead of time. Yuri found it hard to believe a table at this restaurant was so highly coveted, when the casino floor was a short distance away. He’d only been inside for what felt like a few short minutes and the sound of the slot machines was already grating on his nerves and it was going to take him at least two washes to get the smell of cigarette smoke out of his clothes and hair. 

He slipped inside, under the cover of a glamour, and immediately spotted Karen – no, _Ashlyn_ – sitting at a table with what he assumed were her business associates. He muffled his footsteps as best as he could – just because people couldn’t see him didn’t mean they couldn’t hear him – and approached her table, sequestered away from the other rich patrons, dodging waitstaff as they carried trays laden with expensive gourmet food and bottles of rare wine.

Yuri sequesters himself in the alcove just behind the table, glaring at the eight men and women gathered at the table and doing his best to memorize their faces. One of them is prattling on about what sounds like some sort of schmancy event.

“…appropriate to host the conference in Vegas, with all the accommodations available here,” he says, “already we’ve seen a thirty-percent increase in sales.”

Yuri rolls his eyes and purses his lips to hide a yawn, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

One man at the table eats his meal with a spine held ramrod straight, half-moon glasses perched on his nose. He doesn’t look like any of the other bland businesspeople at the table. He’s completely clean-shaven and his head is so bald it’s a good thing the lights are slightly dimmed so his tablemates aren’t blinded by the reflection off his skin. His bespoke blazer is a rich dark navy-purple velvet and Yuri squints at the little golden brooch pinned to his breast – four interlocking circles and a triangle.

_What _the fuck_ is an IMC representative doing here? _he stares in silent horror between Karen and the haughty looking man who eats his lunch in small, well-mannered bites. He doesn’t contribute to the talk circling the table at all, keeping his stony silence.

A part of him that isn’t panicking is completely stunned at his absurd luck. When he’d gotten up this morning with half a plan coming together in his sleep-fogged brain, he hadn’t imagined he’d witness a conspiracy taking place. He’d snuck into the corporate building for Ensign Health to steal the itinerary from Ashlyn’s secretary believing he’d have to follow her around for days to get an inkling of evidence that she was up to shady shit.

Someone checks their watch and happily announces they have another meeting they have to get to, effectively breaking up the luncheon. Yuri squashes himself more tightly into that alcove to avoid getting hit with briefcases and swinging bags, keeping his eyes fixed on the insincere smile Ashlyn gives to her associates as she shakes hands with them.

The IMC representative remains sitting, sipping primly at his glass of wine.

“You were awfully quiet, Minister,” Ashlyn comments, re-taking her seat at the table, “was the halibut not to your liking?”

“On the contrary,” the Minister answered, his voice low and smooth, “I found it quite delightful.” Yuri takes out his phone, making sure it’s completely silenced, before hitting ‘record’. “I didn’t come to socialize, Miss Gonzalez, I’m here to garner a guarantee that you’ll protect our investment.”

“Of course, we’re doing our utmost,” she replies smoothly, “Siegfried is electing to tread carefully with the current trial. He’s hesitant to rush things while it’s going so well, you understand.”

_Siegfried_…Yuri rolls the name around in his mind. She sounds almost fond when she says the name, like she’s talking about her toddler.

“_I_ may be understanding, but my colleagues grow restless given the current situation,” he told her, “they’d like some assurance.”

“You want results,” Ashlyn said, “and you shall have them. I’ll speak with Siegfried, but I make no promises. This is years in the making, Minister, it’d be a shame to ruin it now by rushing.”

Yuri feels slightly sick. He waits with bated breath while both the witch and the Minister leave the restaurant before carefully picking his way back out to the casino floor. He can’t stop looking over his shoulder as he finds a secluded place to open a Portal back to Toronto, emerging on the other side behind the apartment complex dumpster.

They were talking about the current trial…he wonders if that means Otabek. If so, it means that they’ve been keeping tabs on him somehow to collect their precious data. His brain goes to the Han-lim runes carved into Otabek’s skin and his guts twist with alarm.

His first instinct is to move Otabek somewhere else and keep his location under wraps – but there’s a slim chance the figure skater will want to move right now, given his injury. Not to mention, if he suddenly disappears (again) it’ll raise red flags for his family and friends.

He should call in reinforcements, but if the IMC is involved, there’s a chance his Unit is being carefully monitored and he can’t risk communicating with them. He feels exposed, like there’s a target on his back and he takes the stairs two at a time.

The door to the apartment slams behind him and Otabek glances over and frowns. A tinny voice comes from the phone in his hand, asking a question in weird not-Russian – _Kazakh_, Yuri realizes – and Otabek responds, clearly wrapping up his conversation in a hurry before hanging up the phone.

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” Otabek told him, then frowned at him, “Are…you okay?”

“No,” Yuri said, “How was your coach?”

“Pissed.” The way he says it makes it sound like ‘pissed’ is a vast understatement.

“Was that your mom?” Yuri asked.

“Yeah,” Otabek sighed, “She’s not happy either. I had to talk her down from jumping on the next flight.” He rakes a hand through the long-ish hair on the crown of his head before scratching at the fuzzy undercut.

“She’s your mom,” Yuri said, bending down to undo his laces, “it’s her right to be worried about you, especially after what happened.” Otabek grimaces.

“Yeah, I know. But she’s got her own stuff to worry about without my stupid decisions adding to the pile.” Otabek reaches down to adjust the ice pack sitting on his ankle, “What’s your mom like?”

“Dead,” Yuri said, toeing off his shoes.

“Oh, I’m-“

“It’s fine,” Yuri interrupted, “It was a long time ago.”

The figure skater’s been busy while Yuri was gone – there’s weights and an exercise mat on the floor, and his crutches are propped up by the couch within easy reach. Yuri looks at the door, inspecting the protection he put on the apartment and realizing that if he wants to be able to sleep tonight, he’ll have to do much better than this.

“I need something of yours,” Yuri says.

“Excuse me?” Otabek blinked.

“It can be anything,” Yuri said, “Preferably something with sentimental value.”

Otabek frowns and considers Yuri’s statement for a moment, “I don’t have anything like that. At least not here with me. All that stuff is back in Almaty.”

“Tch,” Yuri clicks his tongue in annoyance, “what’s something you’ve had for a while then? A favorite sweater? A favorite pair of shoes-“ Otabek looks at him like he’s grown a third eye and Yuri glares at him, “What? You don’t have a favorite pair of shoes?”

“Not…really?” Otabek said slowly, “I mean, I have my Converse. And there’s a leather jacket I’ve had for forever-“

Yuri immediately knows which one he’s talking about and strides straight into Otabek’s bedroom. It’s spartan and simple – plain gray sheets, a queen-size bed, and simple Ikea furniture. There aren’t many personal affects other than an old Mickey Mouse alarm clock that still has a price sticker attached to it, a selection of books held up with cheap bookends on top of the dresser, and a framed photo. Yuri rummages through the closet, immediately finding the jacket that Otabek has taken to wearing out now that the nights are getting a little cooler.

He hears the clack-step-clack of Otabek’s uneven rhythm on the crutches, slightly muffled by the carpet.

“What are you doing now?” Otabek demanded.

“Chill out, greaser,” Yuri snorted, taking the jacket off the hanger and feeling the leather between his fingers, “Just putting up a barrier is all. I need something to anchor it with.” He’s glad Otabek’s currently got a death-grip on his crutches, his ace-wrapped ankle held precariously above the floor, otherwise he’s sure the mundane would yank the jacket from Yuri’s hands.

_Good_, Yuri thinks, _he’s attached to it_. A shudder goes through the fabric when Yuri begins the spell, taking his time to make sure he doesn’t muddle the pronunciation and ruin both the jacket and the cast. He can feel the barrier, like an extension of his own magic, on the edge of his awareness like a thin film. That will fade with time as the barrier settles.

“There,” he says once he's finished, “See? It’s perfectly fine.”

“What did you do to it?” Otabek asked, tilting his head, “I don’t see a difference.”

“You won’t,” Yuri told him, putting it back in the closet, “but it has to stay put. If you take it outside the apartment the spell won’t hold.”

Otabek’s eyebrow twitches with annoyance, “So now I can’t wear my jacket?”

“I know it’s your favorite,” Yuri said, “But you’re just going to have to suck it up, buttercup.” He slips past Otabek into the living room, feeling a little woozy from the sudden drain on his magic after too many nights of poor sleep in a row. He puts a steadying hand on the wall, giving his head a little shake and staying put until the room stops swaying. Gods, if Ambrose were here, he’d get the scolding of a lifetime. He knows the only reason his phone isn’t being flooded with calls and text messages is because his Unit is being kept busy back in London.

He rummages through Otabek’s fridge, finding the selection sorely lacking – there’s two meal-prep containers left containing the figure skater’s bland diet food and the rest of the fruit that Yuri has yet to eat. He closes the fridge with an annoyed grumble and orders pizza instead. Otabek has already hobbled back over to his spot on the couch and has his foot propped up on a couple of pillows.

Lunch arrives and Yuri’s surprised to see Otabek take two slices from the box when Yuri sets it on the coffee table. “I really shouldn’t,” Otabek admits, “especially since I’m not able to work off the calories, but I’m still under my weight goal, so it should be fine.”

“I thought you were trying to lose weight,” Yuri told him, picking off a stray olive with a wrinkled nose.

“Not necessarily,” Otabek said, “Muscle weighs more than fat, and I’m trying to gain more muscle.”

“You want _more_ muscle?” Yuri looked pointedly at Otabek’s biceps which have only become more obnoxious in the past two weeks. He can see the edges of a particularly nasty scar peeking out from underneath Otabek’s tank top and he looks away.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Otabek chuckled. Yuri snorted.

“You’re such a jock,” Yuri muttered before cramming his mouth full of pizza.

“Except, _I _read books,” Otabek informed him snootily.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Yuri deadpanned around a mouthful of crust and Otabek wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“One of these days you’re going to choke,” Otabek told him while Yuri finished chewing.

“Doubt it, considering I don’t have a gag reflex,” Yuri replied. Otabek closes his mouth so hard Yuri can hear his teeth click together. He snags the last slice of pizza and gladly devours it. He can tell Otabek is hardcore judging him, but that’s fine. The opinions of repressed rich boys don’t matter.

Inevitably, Yuri’s thoughts go back to the scar on Otabek’s chest and how he doesn’t remember any of the other bodies having markings in that particular spot. It’s also strange how Otabek doesn’t have any marks on his face. He distinctly remembers the others having some kind of scarring either on their cheeks, their foreheads, or both.

He’s long concluded that whatever magic they used on Otabek was different, but he doesn’t have any way to confirm that on his own. Glancing at the time, he decides he can put it off until tomorrow, but delaying any further may jeopardize his investigation.

So, the next morning finds him standing over Otabek who’s stretched out on his exercise mat in the living room doing reverse crunches.

“Can I help you?” Otabek squinted up at him.

“When you’re done put on some real clothes,” Yuri told him, “We’re going on a field trip.” There’s a risk in taking Otabek to NABs, given that he’s mundane, but Yuri’s not at all comfortable with leaving him at the apartment by himself.

“Can it wait until after my appointment?” Otabek asked slowly.

Yuri makes a low noise in the back of his throat, “Fine.” 

He lets Otabek finish his work out in peace, padding into the kitchen to pour himself a second cup of coffee. He takes slow sips, leaning against the counter while reading through the notes he’s compiled. He still hasn’t heard from Mila regarding the EMR, which makes his hopes of identifying the victims and giving their families justice shrivel up and do a death crawl towards the light. 

The recording on his phone most likely won’t be admissible in court but it might be enough just to open in an inquiry into the Minister in question…assuming there are people within the IMC that aren’t in on this. He sets his cup down and starts biting at his cuticle, feeling more and more like he’s running out of options. He doesn’t have any connections higher up the chain, nobody he knows for absolute certain that he can trust…besides Lilia.

The idea of going to her for anything after the way their last meeting went makes something inside him roll over and die.

_“If all you’re good for is fighting and following orders, then you’re better off becoming a mercenary instead of an Exorcist.” _

He cringes as he remembers how he’d cried after that until he was nearly sick, his seventeen-year-old self believing that his career had ended before it had even gotten started.

_Ugh, seventeen-year-old me was such an idiot_.

Sure, there’s still a part of him that refused to forgive Lilia for turning him away after all that hard work and telling him to find his potential out there in the big wide world, while another part of him is begrudgingly thankful he wasn’t saddled with Team Victor right out of the gate. Living and working in the Dream Team Couple’s shadow sounds like a recipe for alcoholism.

He picks his mug back up with a sigh and takes a sip, hearing the shower turn off in the next room.

_Finally_.

He stops Otabek from calling another stupid Lyft, offering instead just to Portal them there.

“It’s quicker, and the last car we were in smelled like ass,” Yuri said.

They get to his appointment on time and Yuri plays Candy Crush on his phone until Otabek emerges from his consult with the doctor with a clunky black boot on his right foot and yet another packet of papers in his hand.

“You’re walking again?” Yuri blurted.

“Doctor said the sprain wasn’t too bad,” Otabek said, “The boot should give me more support than the ace wrap. I’m still not allowed to skate for two weeks, though.”

Yuri takes the crutches from him and immediately banishes them back to the safety of the apartment once they’re out of the office and he’s checked for prying eyes.

“So where are we going?” Otabek asked, “You never said.”

When they come out the other side of the Portal to stand on the edge of the empty lot that serves as the visitor’s entrance for NABHQ, Otabek looks less than impressed.

“You dragged me all the way out here,” Otabek says slowly, “to look at a pile of dirt?”

“Yep,” Yuri replied, “Let’s go.”

He’s surprised when the lobby seems…emptier than usual. He’s used to seeing a fair volume of Exorcists quietly trickling between the security barriers behind reception. This branch doesn’t usually get visitors, with most people choosing to take their complaints to the nearest Sub-quarter, but this is particularly eerie.

“Stop gawking,” Yuri said, heading for the main desk, “you’re going to catch flies.”

“You need to get better at warning people,” Otabek told him.

Yuri keeps his quips to himself as they approach the desk.

“No visitors allowed,” the receptionist says, not bothering to look up from the novel balanced on her knee.

“We’re not visitors,” Yuri told her.

She looks up with a sigh and pauses when she sees his Tags.

“And your friend?” she nods to the Tagless Otabek.

“He’s a witness that needs to be evaluated,” Yuri tells her.

She shrugs, has Otabek sign a waiver while giving him the compulsory spiel about what should happen if he violates the policy outlined on the paper. 

“Your access will expire after fourteen hours,” the receptionist recited, “after that you will have to return to the desk to either renew it or return the pass.”

They cross the barrier without any problems, heading straight on to the Archives. There’s only one Scribe at the help desks, scanning documents into a computer and making notes on what looks like an inventory sheet.

“I’m looking for Dr. Collin Park,” Yuri tells him.

The Scribe looks up, “Hm? Um, he should be in his office.”

“And…where is that, exactly?"

The Scribe scribbles a quick map on a scrap piece of paper, “You’ll want to go straight down, make a left here,” he draws an x then an arrow, “take the third right and his office will be on the right-hand side.” He draws a star then hands Yuri the map.

“Thanks.”

The door is wide open when he and Otabek find said office, which means they both get an eyeful of the Chief Archivist macking the tall Goth roommate. Yuri raps his knuckles on the doorframe and the couple parts with a familiar wet smacking sound. Dr. Park turns beetroot red under his mane of silver-white hair while the Goth (ah, right he’s an Exorcist. Yuri can see his Tags.) gives Yuri a dirty look. 

“Sorry for interrupting,” Yuri says, not feeling sorry at all, “Might wanna close the door next time. Just so you know.”

“Why are you _here?_” snapped Goth Exorcist, “Thought you would’ve fucked off back to the European Branch.”

“I need Dr. Park to translate something else for me,” Yuri replied, stepping into the office and hooking his ankle behind the door to nudge it shut behind him.

“And you brought a friend this time,” Goth Exorcist deadpanned, “How nice.”

Dr. Park, apparently over his temporary bout of mortification, is looking quizzically at Otabek, “Your…friend is-“

“Yeah, he’s mundane,” Yuri waved a hand at Otabek, “You’ll see why I brought him here in a minute.” He turns to Otabek, “Take off your shirt.”

“E-_excuse_ me?” Otabek sputters.

“And how is your _mundane_ friend giving us a strip-tease supposed to justify breaking the law?” Goth demanded and it’s Otabek’s turn to flush bright red all the way up to the tips of his ears.

“Trust me, there’s nothing sexy about why we’re here,” Yuri snorted, “Come on, Altin, off with it.”

Otabek sputters some more, “Um…no. Why should I?” 

Yuri takes a deep breath in through his nose, “You want to know what makes you a special lab rat to them right?” Otabek stares at him. “_That’s_ why. Take it off.”

Even for an athlete who obviously takes quite good care of his body, it’s painfully obvious how self-conscious he is when he strips off his shirt. Yuri knows that Otabek has taken to wearing long-sleeves even during the days when it was nearly thirty-six Celsius outside and it’s even more rare for him to wear a tank top around the apartment.

He looks even more uncomfortable – on the verge of tears almost – when Dr. Park gapes in horror and curses in Korean.

“You shouldn’t be alive,” Dr. Park sputters, “Han-lim is absolute and binds magical power. Even for a Warlock to bear it would take extraordinary strength. The fact that a mundane…you should be _gone_. How…? This doesn’t make any sense!”

“Is there a way to, I dunno, dilute it?” Yuri asked.

“No,” Dr. Park scoffed.

“Is it…is something bad going to happen?” Otabek asked, his embarrassment waning as fear starts to take its place.

“I honestly have no clue,” Dr. Park told him, “You shouldn’t even _exist_. Without any magic to sustain the spell it’s a fucking miracle I’m even looking at you.”

“Can you compare the two rune sequences and translate them?” Yuri conjured Ambrose’s sketch of the runes, handing it to the archivist.

“You’ll have to give me a day,” Dr. Park says, rubbing his temples, “I can’t…I’m still wrapping my head around this.”

Yuri wants to tell him he may not have that kind of time, but Otabek looks like he’s about to crawl out of his skin so he bites his tongue and lets Dr. Park get on with copying down what he sees on Otabek’s arms, chest, and back.

“There should be more on his legs,” Yuri says and Otabek looks betrayed.

“I’m _not_ taking my pants off,” he immediately says.

“That’s fine, you can just roll them up,” Dr. Park is quick to mediate and Otabek does just that, rolls up the pant legs of his jeans as far as they’ll go.

“I don’t have any scars on my hips,” Otabek says when he’s got them up to the tops of his thighs. When he’s told he can put his shirt back on he looks visibly relieved to be covered up. Yuri reopens the door to the office and Otabek takes the opportunity to bow out, Yuri making to follow him because a mundane getting lost in NABHQ is a recipe for disaster.

“I appreciate the help,” Yuri said, “Uh, I should probably give you my number.” He scribbles it on a post-it and sticks it to the computer so it doesn’t get lost in the other piles of paperwork on the desk.

“Agent…” Dr. Park begins.

“Plisetsky,” Yuri tells him.

“Agent Plisetsky,” Dr. Park continued, “What they’ve done…is a _horrible_ thing, and I’m glad to help you in whatever way I can.” His voice snags for a moment, and Yuri watches him blink away tears before he nods, and leaves the office, following Otabek down the hall. Thankfully, even with the walking boot, he hasn’t gotten too far.

“Hey dumbass, you’re going the wrong way!”

Otabek pauses and sighs at the ceiling, “You could’ve given me some warning back there.”

“Now, if I’d done that you would’ve refused to come,” Yuri picks a piece of lint off his sleeve and flicks it away.

“You don’t know that,” Otabek told him, “You don’t know what I would’ve done-“

“Please,” Yuri sneered, “you’re so predictable. Your entire species is. It’s obvious you’re self-conscious about the scars-“

“So, your response is to make me strip in front of strangers?” Otabek demanded, “Dammit, what happened to being conscientious-“

“I closed the door, didn’t I? Excuse the fuck outta me if your body image issues aren’t my top priority,” Yuri snapped, “People are _dead_. I’ve exhumed more bodies in the past two months than I have my entire career and I’m trying to keep you from becoming one of them.” Even now, the torment depicted on their dead faces still lingers behind his eyes, preserved in the morgue beneath the London Sub-quarter.

Otabek clenches his jaw and Yuri runs his tongue over his teeth.

“You want me to admit it was shitty of me? Fine, I was an asshole,” Yuri said, “You happy now?”

“Not really,” Otabek said flatly.

“If you want an apology, you’re not getting one,” Yuri told him, “because I wouldn’t mean it. I’m not sorry.” He points, “The exit is that way.”

“You should change the ‘was’ to ‘are’,” Otabek said, limping past him, “You are an asshole.”

“And you’re stuck with me until I fix this,” Yuri said, “congratu-fucking-lations.”

They walk back the way they came and Otabek’s silence is particularly stony. A part of him does feel a little bit guilty but it’s overshadowed by the fact that he’ll finally get some answers. With an expert decoding the spell and Yuri starting to gather evidence, he knows he’s _finally_ getting somewhere.

Now, how to tell Otabek that his apartment may not be a sufficient hiding place-

“Oof!” he nearly goes stumbling into Otabek, his body remembering at the last second to plant his weight and there’s the sound of books hitting the ground. “Watch where you’re fucking going-“ the rest shrivels up as cold recognition makes his intestines twist themselves into nauseating knots.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention,” Zain crouches to pick up the materials he dropped – one of them a particularly thick tome that looks like it’s at least a century old.

Yuri knows he should say something – anything – and then run. He _wants_ to run. The anger that boils under his skin is an old one. He grabs Otabek’s arm and starts to steer him away.

Too late. “Y-Yuri?”

_Fuck_.

“Yuri is that you?”

He walks faster, practically dragging Otabek along beside him despite the indignant, “Hey!” that comes out of his mouth.

“Just hurry up,” Yuri hissed, hurrying past the help desk and out into the atrium.

“Who was that?” Otabek asked, rubbing his arm when Yuri’s released him.

“Nothing,” Yuri snapped, “No one. Let’s return the pass and get out of here.”

Of all fucking places to run into him it had to be here. He can feel the static in his hair and between his teeth and he wants to throw up.

Dammit, he doesn’t have _time_ for this bullshit.

The receptionist doesn’t look happy to see them again, taking the bracelet without so much as a ‘have a nice day’.

“I was expecting to end up standing in dirt,” Otabek muses quietly when they leave the lobby for the courtyard outside.

“The exit to the street is marked over there,” Yuri points, “but now I can just Portal us out.”

The silence between them is thick and kind of awkward, and as soon as they’re back in the apartment Otabek shuts himself in his room while Yuri collapses onto the couch, burying his face into the cushions before letting loose the cathartic scream that had been building in his throat since running into his ex.

He knew that Zain had transferred out of country, but he had no fucking clue he’d transferred to another fucking continent entirely. Now, his entire train of thought has been derailed and he muffles another screech with the couch cushions.

_I’m so fucking stupid_, he punches a throw pillow, _I should be over it by now_. _Why aren’t I fucking over it?_

The pillow in his hand catches fire when he punches it a sixth time, and the smoke alarm immediately starts to shriek. Yuri puts out the flame and dissipates the smoke, but the alarm doesn’t stop and the door to Otabek’s room is thrown open with a, “What the _actual_ fuck?!”

Yuri snaps his fingers and the shrieking stops, but his ears are still ringing and he’s still holding the blackened throw pillow.

“Now you’re getting fire to my stuff? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, you dick,” Yuri huffed, a quick bit of magic and it’s as good as new, “I lost control. See? I fucking fixed it. You can go back to brooding now.”

Otabek glares at him before doing just that, leaving Yuri to ruminate in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might've been up a tad sooner but I've been putting in the hours to level up in Hollow Knight instead 'cause...you know...priorities. Next chapter is a third(ish?) of the way done, so it should be up soon(ish???). (As you can see, I'm terrible at guesstimating.)
> 
> I have some sketches of what the IMC insignia and HUNTER Department crest are supposed to look like, but I didn't want to curse you all with my terrible drawings. 
> 
> Stay healthy, stay hydrated, stay safe! <3


	15. In This Essay I Will . . .

_September 2024; Toronto_

_This is stupid_, Otabek thinks, his head falling back against the headboard. The brief haunted look in Yuri’s eyes when they were arguing sticks to his brain.

_“I’ve exhumed more bodies during this case than I have in my entire career.” _

And then later, when they ran into that other Exorcist…he’s not entirely sure what _that_ was. An ex maybe? When he’d looked back, there had been a lot of regret on said Exorcist’s face. Regret and guilt? He can’t stop himself from being curious. He has a lot of questions, but he’s still angry.

Mostly, he’s angry that Yuri obviously thinks he can’t be trusted and thus doesn’t feel the need to communicate. And then he was put on display like some sort of lab specimen and it makes his gut roil.

He can already hear Hana giving him the same old lecture she always gives him when he shuts down like this.

_If you want things to get better, you have to _talk_ about it. Open the discussion. Establish solid boundaries and set realistic expectations. _

Even on the other side of the planet he can’t get away from Hana’s annoying older-sister-isms.

The part of him that’s petty doesn’t want to extend the much-needed olive branch, even though he’s aware that Yuri’s probably suffering under the weight of doing all of this on his own.

The Warlock is sitting on the couch with yet another American-gallon-sized tub of ice cream in the space between his legs where they’re folded crisscross-applesauce.

“I can hear you breathing back there,” Yuri announces without taking his eyes off the tomfoolery playing out on the television screen, “What do you want?”

“We should talk,” Otabek said, “especially if you’re going to be sticking around indefinitely.”

Yuri does an awkward half-turn to look at Otabek, “Talk about what, exactly?”

“Not here,” Otabek said, “I think we both need to get out of the house for something that isn’t work related.”

They end up back at that diner that they went to Yuri’s first night in Canada. Yuri orders a basket of fries and a large chocolate milkshake while, predictably, Otabek orders something a little more diet friendly. The waitress disappears and Yuri leans back in the booth, the cheap vinyl seats creaking as he shifts his weight, “Well, you wanted to talk, so talk.”

He'd had this planned out in his head, had imagined this conversation going smoothly without any yelling, but now he’s got the Warlock sitting across the booth with an eyebrow raised in an obvious challenge and a part of him balks.

Oh well. Too late to turn back now.

“I know you think withholding things from me is protecting me,” Otabek begins, “but if this is going to work, you’re going to have to communicate the important stuff. You can’t keep me in the dark and expect me to cooperate blindly.”

“You’re acting like I put a gun in your hand and told you to shoot a puppy,” Yuri said, “I told you to take off your shirt. Was I aware that you’d be uncomfortable? Yeah. Does it matter in the grand scope of finding out how you’ll be affected by the Han-lim on your skin? Not really.”

Otabek rolled his eyes, “It’s not about the damn shirt, Yuri, it’s about you treating me like I’m five years old and not a grown ass man. You don’t have to keep secrets about every little thing. I can handle being told stuff on a need-to-know basis.”

“Can you?” Yuri leaned forward, green eyes sharp, “You barely held on to your dinner when I explained possession to you. And I would put money on the fact that you probably can’t handle what Dr. Park has to say about your scars.”

“Right now, I’m just more grateful I’m not dead,” Otabek said. Honestly, he’s been trying not to think too much about the things Dr. Park already said. To think that his prognosis could get even worse is disheartening.

Yuri huffs, blowing a lock of hair out of his face, “You’ll probably revise that statement tomorrow.”

Otabek’s eyes narrow, “You…know something already, don’t you?” to his credit, Yuri’s expression hardly wavers from that usual scowl. The only tell is the way his eyebrow twitches.

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuri says quickly, “the other victims…their scars were different than yours. Figuring out what makes _you_ special is my priority right now.”

The waitress chooses that moment to approach the table with their order, politely asking if they need anything else after she sets the food and drinks down, before wandering away again to tend to another table. The silence between them is awkward and thick and Otabek’s finger idly taps out a rhythm on the side of his glass. Yuri looks up from where he’s swirling a French fry in his chocolate milkshake.

“I know you’re filled with _more_ burning questions,” Yuri said, all gruff, resigned, and exasperated, “So much for trying to discourage you from asking.”

“What is he?” Otabek blurted, “Dr. Park, I mean. All those teeth…” Yuri chortled.

“He’s one of the Fae,” Yuri said, “a Dragonbeast.” Otabek tried to imagine that face breathing fire and drew a blank.

“And you know him how?” Otabek asked. He could only speculate how someone so nice managed to surround himself with such prickly personalities. The archivist had such a kindly face…even with all the teeth. 

“I don’t,” Yuri said, “Not really. I thought him and the Goth guy were just roommates before but shows you that I know fuck all about interpersonal relationships.” 

_Speaking of relationships…_

Otabek opens his mouth, thinking about what happened after they’d left Dr. Park’s office and the look on Yuri’s face when it did, but then promptly shuts it again. Yuri – of course – notices and rolls his eyes. “You can fucking ask. It’s fine.”

“I didn’t want to pry,” Otabek said.

“Such a fucking gentleman,” Yuri said flatly.

“It seemed like there was a lot of history there.” He’s _not_ going to mention the guilty look on the other Exorcist’s face when they walked (more like ran) away. Otabek is ninety-two percent confident that that wouldn’t go over well.

“Oh gee, what gave it away?” Yuri deadpanned. Otabek shrugged. He knows what running into an ex looks like…especially when you and said ex didn’t exactly part on amicable terms.

Yuri starts by telling him that Zain (apparently that’s his name) is Ambrose’s brother.

“I didn’t know Ambrose had a brother,” Otabek murmured. He’d lived in the man’s house for three whole days, had seen wedding pictures and vacation pictures but Otabek can’t recall seeing any featuring the two brothers.

“They’re fraternal twins,” Yuri said, “Ambrose is the younger one, by about six minutes. Not that it fucking matters. Anyway, we dated for a bit and it was fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah,” Yuri scoffed, “fine.”

He hasn’t dated much with his career taking up the majority of his time, but he’s pretty sure that ‘fine’ isn’t a word you use to describe a good relationship. Not even a past one.

“It was mostly physical,” Yuri said, picking up another fry and swirling it in his shake, “but, I kinda got the feeling something was off? I dunno. Didn’t seem like his heart was really in it. I should’ve dumped his ass as soon as I thought it but…I thought I was being a fucking cynic as per fucking usual.” Yuri lets out a self-deprecating sound around a mouthful of French fry and chocolate, “Dumbass Of the Year, right here.” he points to himself with both thumbs.

“So, what happened?” Otabek frowned.

“He called out someone else’s name in bed,” Yuri said and Otabek grimaced.

Ouch.

And then Yuri laughs, “His own fuckin’ sister-in-law. How fucked up is that?” there’s a lot of bitterness there. It can’t have been that long ago for Yuri to still be this salty…then again, Yuri seems like the type who’s good at holding grudges.

Otabek takes in Yuri’s long fair hair. It’s not as fair as Zhenya’s, but in a dark room…

_Double_ ouch.

“Did you tell Ambrose?” Otabek asked.

“Yeah,” Yuri said, “Keeping something like that from him and having to work together? Fuck, I couldn’t do it. And I know he confronted Zain because Zain and I had this big ugly fight before he transferred out of the country. Hadn’t seen him since.”

“Okay, I can see why a reunion would be awkward,” he admitted.

Yuri huffs, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his face, “Just call it what it is. I ran like a fucking coward.” He crosses his arms.

“Well, so did he,” Otabek said slowly, “He didn’t stick around to make amends, did he?” Yuri looks thoughtful at that. “I think your tactical retreat was justified.”

“Tactical retreat, huh?” Yuri scoffed, mouth twisting in faint amusement, “You’re such a dork.”

“I thought I was a jock.”

“You can be two things at once, smartass.”

They end up staying at the diner until they’re the last patrons left, and Yuri’s eaten his fill.

“I haven’t had a food baby this big since Hasetsu,” Yuri announced, patting his distended stomach. Otabek eyes it, wondering for the umpteenth time how Yuri manages to stay so thin when he put away three double cheeseburgers and a second basket of fries.

“Do I even want to know what that is?”

“Tiny town in Japan,” Yuri said, “Hella boring, but the food is to die for. Ugh, _all_ the fresh sashimi.” He gets that look of distant sparkly-eyed longing in his eye that Otabek has seen often on JJ when he’s thinking about pizza.

“How are you real?” Otabek asked, “You ate all that and you’re thinking about sushi?”

“I’m a man of many talents, Otabek,” Yuri said, spreading his arms.

Otabek rolls his eyes and fights down a smile.

It’s late enough that it’ll probably throw Otabek off his perfectly regimented sleep schedule (though, let’s be honest, it hasn’t been completely regular for weeks now). He takes some Ibuprofen because his ankle has a tendency to ache at night since it’s impossible to keep it elevated while he sleeps unless he commandeers the already commandeered couch. He’s strangely at peace when he crawls into bed and he makes a mental note to thank Hana for kicking him in the ass even when she’s not physically present to do so.

He startled awake and the hand over his mouth tightens. Yuri’s green eyes glitter in the near darkness, silently holding a finger to his lips in a gesture to remain silent. The moonlight filtering in through the gaps in the blinds illuminates the grim look on his face. He tries to pull away and get a good look at the time on his nightstand clock, though he knows it probably can’t have been more than a few short hours since he fell asleep.

“What the hell, Yuri?” he whispers hoarsely, his voice muffled into Yuri’s palm.

“We have to go,” Yuri urged, his voice barely a whisper, “_Now_.” he manhandles Otabek out of bed and shoves him through the Portal yawning wide open in the middle of his bedroom. The neighborhood on the other side is quiet, and Otabek can smell fresh flowers. The last of the cobwebs left over from the first decent night’s sleep he’s had in ages finally dissolve as he realizes that he has no idea where the fuck he is.

“What the hell?” he repeated, “What is this? Where are we?” the dull ache in his ankle turns into a more insistent throb the longer he keeps his weight on it. His boot is back at the apartment. His apartment that’s probably halfway across the world right now. He picks up his foot to relieve the pressure, standing like a flamingo on a dark suburban street. But now he can’t really walk like this.

“Shut the fuck up,” Yuri hisses, his warmth unbearably close as he steps in to support Otabek’s weight, “You’ll wake up the entire neighborhood.” There’s no choice but to hold on for dear life as they turn towards a house with a lush garden and a wrought iron fence a little higher than his waist. 

“You never answered my question,” Otabek said.

“Do they not have suburbs in Almaty?” Yuri snorted.

“You _know_ that’s not what I meant.” They come to the front steps and they’re faced with a dilemma. Apparently, Yuri decides ‘fuck it’ and Otabek – to his consternation – becomes light as a feather. Yuri doesn’t let him float more than a few inches off the ground, guiding his levitating body up to the porch before dismissing the magic and Otabek becomes one with gravity again.

“Please stop doing that,” Otabek mutters shakily.

“Okay, first of all, I saved your life,” Yuri grunted. The front door silently swings open to let them in and the lights inside the foyer click on before their feet even touch the welcome mat, “You’re fucking welcome. Second, I’m not fucking carrying you. I’d break my fucking back. Third, this is my mentor’s house, so don’t touch anything you think you can’t afford.”

“Mentor?” Otabek repeated dumbly, immediately picturing a tall wizard like the guy from the old Mickey cartoon with a pointy hat teaching Yuri proper wand movement, “Like, your teacher? Do they teach at a magic school, like-?”

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘Hogwarts’,” Yuri said, eyes narrowed in a glare, “I _will_ drop you and you can _crawl_ the rest of the way.” Otabek shuts his mouth and hobbles along into what looks like the kitchen, letting Yuri deposit him into a chair at the table. He takes the opportunity to prop up his bum ankle, the pain starting to dull again now that he’s stopped trying to walk on it.

“I need a fucking drink,” Yuri muttered, going to the cabinet and pulling down glasses.

“So…_is_ there a magic school?” Otabek asked, imagining Yuri in Slytherin house robes because with that hair he looks like a Malfoy-

“Oh my fucking gods,” Yuri muttered, tilting his head back towards the ceiling with an exasperated sigh, “_Yes_. We go to school and learn just like you do. There’s no charms class or…or…Defense Against Dark Magic 101-“

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Otabek muttered and Yuri gives him a withering glare before going back to combing through the cabinets. “How long will I have to hide?” Otabek asked after the silence between them is long enough that it starts to border on awkward.

“I dunno,” Yuri answered, “I knew - well, I had a feeling they’d come for you soon, but not _this_ soon.”

“What do you mean?” Otabek frowned.

“When I was…out, the other day, I heard some things,” Yuri admitted haltingly, pausing in the middle of his search.

“You were out spying?” Otabek raised an eyebrow.

“Good thing I did,” Yuri said, “I never would’ve put up that barrier and I wouldn’t have felt them coming. I’d be dead and you’d be on a slab right now. A-_ha!_” he pulls a dusty bottle of wine down from the cabinet.

His stomach starts to turn. “You really think they would’ve killed you?”

“Without a doubt,” Yuri says matter-of-factly, setting aforementioned wine on the table and the cork springs free. “Want some?”

“I…shouldn’t,” Otabek said, “it hasn’t been more than six hours since my last dose of pain meds.” And his stomach is still churning away and twisting itself into sickening knots.

“Suit yourself,” Yuri shrugged and poured himself way more than the suggested serving size. 

A shadow moves into his peripheral vision while he’s watching Yuri pour and he immediately twitches towards it, surprised when the shadow doesn’t move and it’s actually a woman dressed head to toe in black.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to shop my stash, Plisetsky,” she says.

Yuri startles, narrowly avoiding sloshing wine all over the table and he sets the bottle down heavily on the table, “Fucking Christ,” the Warlock wheezed, “You did that on purpose.” 

“Who’s this?” she gestured to Otabek sitting at the table. He attempts to get his foot off the chair to stand and introduce himself, but his damn adductor decides to spasm.

Yuri puts a hand on his head to shove him back into his chair and stop his flailing about, “Otabek Altin. This is my mentor, Jade.” 

“Uh…it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Otabek says politely, earlier visions of the tall wizard and pointy hat vanishing to be replaced with this militant woman. If _this_ is who taught Yuri magic, Otabek’s got a vague idea why Yuri doesn’t fear death.

“Charmed,” she drawled, mismatched eyes drift over to Yuri in a deceptively lazy look, “You know where the guest rooms are.” She stalks – really there’s no better word for it – out of the kitchen and Otabek blinks, wondering for a moment if he just narrowly escaped death for the second time that night.

“Um….”

Yuri snickers, his hand partially covering his smile, “You look like you’re reconsidering that drink.”

“I kinda am,” Otabek admitted, “if it weren’t for the fact that it’d get me killed.”

“Nah, the wine’s cheap,” Yuri waved him off, “If we touched her hard stuff then our heads would be mounted in the garden for sure.”

“Our?”

“Yeah, you’re guilty by association,” Yuri said easily, taking another sip.

Otabek has to laugh, “That is not how it works.”

“Oh yeah? Pretty sure I know better, since between the two of us, I’m the one who actually works in law enforcement.”

“_Magical_ law enforcement,” Otabek emphasized.

“SVU is required to understand the nuances of mundane law to get appropriate justice for mundane victims of supernatural crime,” Yuri retorted, “So there.” he sticks his tongue out.

“What are you, five?” Otabek raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve had this conversation,” Yuri said sweetly, “I’m a fetus, remember?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Otabek rolled his eyes. And because it was approximately three in the morning, they end up giggling at the table like teenagers. At this point, Otabek’s pretty sure he’s barely staving off hysteria.

They’re still giggling when Jade reemerges – still terrifying, even in Snoopy-themed pajamas and hamburger slippers. Her milky green eye is somehow the more piercing of the two and Otabek absently wonders if she’s actually blind in that eye or if it’s just Like That. 

“Nice to see that you two are enjoying yourselves,” she said pleasantly and what’s left of Otabek’s hysterical mirth completely dries up.

“We’re sorry about all the noise,” he says.

“No, you’re not,” she snorted, looking pointedly at Yuri who stifles a snicker into his wine. She gives them a last pointed look before she turns down the hall.

“Alright, I guess that means the party’s over,” Yuri conceded, setting down his empty glass. 

Otabek yawned, his body reminding him that he and Yuri had had a late night talking at the diner before they were so rudely awakened after a precious handful of hours spent in REM sleep. He has to manually pry his leg off the chair he used to elevate his ankle and it’s immediately assaulted with that gross pins-and-needles feeling.

“Come on,” Yuri sighed, hauling him out of the chair, “Lord knows you’re fuckin’ useless on your own.”

“Hey,” Otabek protested, “I managed just fine when you weren’t here.”

“Whatever you say, Altin,” Yuri said, “Whatever you say.”

Yuri levitates him to get him up the stairs despite Otabek’s protests. “Shut the fuck up. I already told you I’m not carrying you. My spine would implode.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Otabek paused, not sure if he should be offended or not.

“The biggest fatass I’ve ever met,” Yuri replied.

“Oh gee, you really know how to boost a guy’s confidence, don’t you?”

“I do my best.”

The guest room Yuri puts him in is decorated simply. There’s a desk, a tall dresser of drawers, and a huge dusty footlocker with a huge tarnished padlock on it at the foot of the bed.

“Here,” Yuri dumps him unceremoniously on the bed, “I’m going to try and get some more sleep now. Good night.”

“Uh…good night,” Otabek replied.

He doesn’t get that easy sleep from earlier back, no matter how valiantly he reaches for it. His body is tired, but his brain is a livewire and when sleep does finally come it’s fitful. Bits and pieces of a familiar nightmare bounce him between the dreamscape and wakefulness like a ping-pong ball.

It’s well into morning when he drags himself out of bed, exhaustion clinging to his limbs. He blinks when he finds his phone at his bedside and, hey, his walking boot. He gratefully straps it on, the support around the contused tendons immediately relieving some of the ache.

He picks up his phone, breathing out a sigh when he sees the missed messages from his mother are just wishing him a good day and imploring him to take care of himself. JJ’s sent him a couple of gifs that are clearly meant to be cries for help while he’s stuck in the figure skating boot camp the Leroys have organized to prepare for the Autumn Classic. 

He sends his mother a heart emoji and responds to JJ’s gifs with a ‘Sucks to be you lmao’. His chronic introvertedness means no one will question his supposed holing up in the apartment for days at a time, but in the event that someone asks he’ll have to have an excuse for why and where he’s gone without sounding lame or raising any red flags.

No pressure.

The smell of bacon hits him once he opens the door, and he limps down the stairs to find Jade in the kitchen, putting together a breakfast big enough to feed an army – or, at least, feed Yuri which is basically the same thing. The daytime better illuminates the sharp cast of Jade’s features and the scar that bisects her clouded left eye. 

“Good morning,” she murmurs, “I see you slept in.”

“I guess?” Otabek hesitates before sitting down, “Um…do you need help with anything or…?”

“I’m nearly done. You can have a seat and help yourself,” Jade said, flipping the waffle iron over and opening it to extract the fluffy cooked deliciousness within and add another waffle to the pile.

“Uh, where’s Yuri?”

“Shower,” Jade gestured with the fork she used to carefully pry each waffle from the hot iron. In the daytime she looks less like an Exorcist and more like an extremely tired college student that may or may not have seen war. Like Yuri, there are deep shadows under her eyes.

Otabek piles his plate with eggs, passing on the bacon, and grabs two waffles from the stack already on the table.

“Coffee?” Jade offers.

“Please,” he nods. 

She sets a mug in front of him and he dilutes the bitterness from the small pitcher of milk set on the table.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking a much-needed sip and indulging in a sigh because coffee was on the list of no-no’s. He was being good and abstaining from the sugar, but the caffeine was a must after the shitty night he’d had.

The waffles are definitely an indulgence, and he wants to cry at how good they are, his breakfast steadily disappearing with an unforeseen gusto.

“Good?” Jade asked, taking a seat at the table with her own comically large mug of coffee.

“Very,” Otabek says, “thank you very much.”

She raises her mug in a silent ‘you’re welcome’ and takes a sip.

Yuri wanders back in just in time to interrupt his internal debate over whether he should eat a third one, looking somehow even more exhausted than Otabek feels, sitting down heavily at the table and piling a ridiculous amount of food onto his plate. There’s a bright red mark across his cheek bone that’s starting to purple and just as he opens his mouth to ask _what the hell happened?_ he feels a nudge on his shoulder. He looks over at Jade – who’s sipping calmly at her coffee and most definitely not sitting close enough to tap his shoulder – and she gives him a Look.

_Let him be_, it says.

Otabek grabs a third waffle.

The silence at the table is thin and fragile, but heavy and Otabek swallows the last bite of his breakfast.

“Yuri can show you where the guest bathroom is if you want to shower,” Jade says, “No guarantee I’ll have clothes for you though.”

“That’s fine, you’ve been a generous host,” Otabek tells her. Jade looks pointedly at Yuri across the table.

“You hear that, Plisetsky? Maybe you should keep him around, so you’ll learn some manners,” Jade says and Yuri scoffs around a mouthful of waffle. At this point, Otabek’s disgust is more of a reflex than a genuine reaction to seeing half-chewed food. “I swear, it was like you were raised by wolves.”

“I’ll hire a Mance witch just to tell babulya you said that,” Yuri tells her.

Just like that, the tension dissolves.

The dirty dishes carry themselves to the sink to be washed in a neat magical assembly line and Otabek follows Yuri upstairs.

“Bathroom’s just here,” Yuri opens the door and clicks on the light for him, “When you’re done meet me in the study. I got some stuff to tell you.” he leaves without another word, leaving Otabek to take in the décor and get clean. He shucks his pajamas, sitting down to remove his walking boot, before gingerly stepping into the clawfoot tub.

It’s amazing how a shower has the power to invigorate him despite all the upheaval in the last twelve hours. He feels less high-strung than he did thirty minutes ago, soothed by the hot water and the gentle smell of rosemary and mint soap.

He climbs out, dries off, puts the orthopedic boot back on, and then – with his pajamas tucked in a bundle underneath his arm – pads down the hall to his room in his towel. A pair of track pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt are waiting for him on the bed and Otabek tilts his head because he’s pretty sure those are his. He stifles the urge to question it and just pulls on the clean clothes before traipsing back down the stairs to find the study.

There’s a pair of double doors nearly identical to the ones that border the entrance to the kitchen – but he has a feeling those never close – that are shut tight. They slide apart silently when he approaches, and he balks at how…_big_ the room is.

_This…is a study?_ It seems too big to fit inside the house, though he may be misremembering the dimensions after only getting a look at said house when it was pitch black outside. There’s a wall – and he means wall because ‘shelf’ is too mild – of books and a huge mahogany desk parked in front of the triplicate windows that let him glimpse a wild lush garden. He blinks at the precarious little towers of books dotting the floor.

There’s a sound system hooked up to what looks like a legit gramophone, some comfy looking couches for reading, and…a vintage car?

“She works on it when she has the time,” Yuri said, making Otabek jump. As tall as he is, he was absolutely buried in one of the squashy leather armchairs in the middle of the room with a novel in his lap and Otabek had completely missed the top of his blond head just beneath the back of the chair.

“Cool,” Otabek nodded, “So, is this going to be a good talk?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘good’,” Yuri said, “Have a seat.”

He’ll take that as a ‘no’. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pro tip: confuse Google's algorithm by researching figure skating events, how to take apart a rifle, and the Great Schism of the Roman Catholic Church all at the same time. 
> 
> And remember: romance is temporary, but saltiness is forever. (At least in my experience.) 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated <3


	16. Talk With Your Doctor About Ambien

_September 2024; Chicago_

Yuri does not go to the second guest room to try and get more sleep. He goes back downstairs to the study where Jade is thumbing through an old book of hers. She earmarks the page and there’s barely a second in between the book quietly snapping shut and Yuri’s word vomit. Once it starts, it just doesn’t stop and she listens all the way through, her face mildly contemplative until he finally runs out of words. 

“You know, most people use their suspension to get in some leisure time,” Jade mused, “But, then again, you’re not most people. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same.”

Godsdammit. He should’ve known that she would find out about his suspension. The ‘how’ doesn’t really matter. If she knows then Lilia most definitely does, which means he’s going to be in so much trouble if he makes it out of this alive. 

“You can’t hide out here indefinitely,” Jade tells him, “if they do come for him, the Wards on my house will not survive a full-scale assault.”

Yuri’s eyes narrow with doubt because he’s seen first-hand what that purple monstrosity in the garden does to nosy neighbors let alone unwelcome hostiles.

“As for the spell…it sounds like it may be permanent,” Jade frowned, “I don’t know much about whatever this Han-lim is, but you gotta tell him, Yuri.”

“I know,” Yuri admitted.

“You’ve been trying to spare him the ugly truth all this time,” Jade narrowed her eyes at him, “Why?”

“He has a life, Jade,” Yuri said, “Maybe I think he should be able to go back to it.”

“Exactly, this is his _life_,” she retorted, “And he should know that there’s a possibility he won’t be able to live like a human anymore.”

“I know,” Yuri admitted, “I’ll tell him everything once I get the rest of the translation from Dr. Park. I just wanted all the facts first.”

Jade gives him a searching look before she sighs, “I’m glad to see that SVU didn’t completely rob you of empathy, at least.”

“I’m shit at empathy in general. Besides, Otabek is a good person,” Yuri finally said.

“His parents definitely raised him right,” Jade replied flatly, “You could certainly learn a thing or two about manners from him.” Yuri scoffed.

“I’m going to bed now,” he said, “’Night.”

Sleep doesn’t come, no matter how long he lays there and silently counts sprites. His body faces the door, waiting for another threat that isn’t likely to come anytime soon while his brain reminds him of all the preventative measures he didn’t take.

If there had been time, he would’ve wiped the apartment clean of any biological traces of the two of them, now they have the means to find both him and Otabek. The layers of impenetrable Wards on Jade’s house will shield them for the time being, even if Yuri hates the idea of hiding and laying low like some sort of prey animal.

He knows who they are now, and he should be taking the fight to them, but he has no plan, no backup, and he needs more intel.

He would bet money that Siegfried is the name of the clinic administrator who threatened Dr. Ashworth. The name she’d given them bears some similarity to the name he’d heard in Vegas and he already knows without spending fruitless hours combing through the Agency’s database that the man will be a ghost.

Part of him wants to back to the Ensign Health corporate building and dig up more information, but if Ashlyn’s smart (and she most definitely is) she’ll have another base somewhere else. He frowns as he scrolls through the itinerary he’d photographed, and her meetings are literally all over the place. 

Otabek will have to lay low while Yuri figures this shit out, but he’ll still need a route of communication lest his family order a fucking all out manhunt for him this time. As much as he hates to say it, the timing of Otabek’s injury was impeccable.

Yuri swings his legs over the side of the bed and opens the Portal before can he think too much on how reckless he’s being. On the other side, the barrier he’d erected is tattered and barely present on the edge of his senses. He lets himself into Otabek’s apartment, bracing himself for…something. Nothing leaps out at him and tries to tear his face off. On the surface, it looks completely untouched. No overturned furniture or threats carved into the walls.

“_Fumus detego_.” Fine white smoke creeps across the floor, revealing a web of magical traps and matrices. He’s probably already set one off just by opening the door and he precariously tiptoes through the apartment, narrowly avoiding getting stuck in multiple Traps to get to Otabek’s bedroom. The walking boot and Otabek’s phone have been left as is. He banishes them both to the house in Chicago before going to the closet and finding the jacket, still anchoring the tattered remains of the barrier. The leather is worn and soft between his fingers, and as soon as it joins Otabek’s things on the other side of the Canadian border, the rest of the barrier begins to crumble.

He hears the front door slam shut and his heart jumps into his throat, torn between fight or flight for a precious ten seconds before his body chooses flight, and he jumps through a hastily opened Portal. His feet barely touch pavement on the other side before he’s sent sprawling with a low grunt.

He hurriedly forces himself to his feet, staggering into the beginnings of a fast run but a hand in his hair stops him from getting any further, slamming him into the alley wall. Yuri grits out curses when pain sings along his cheek and shoulder, barely soothed by the cool dirty brick against his skin. _Familiar_ dirty brick. He’s glad, at least, that even while panicking he had the sense not to lead the HHN straight to where he’d stashed Otabek.

“What’s this I’ve caught?” the grip on his scalp tightens and his head is forcibly craned back. The mercenary looks totally ordinary – plainclothes, boring military haircut, and a thin faded scar over his chin. There’s cool interest in the washed-out gray of his eyes, and he clicks his tongue, “A pretty fish?”

That does it.

He lets his magic go in one white-hot burst of lightning, the electric strands following the loose locks of his hair to the hand currently holding him by the roots. His nose wrinkles in a sharp grimace at the sting of strands being forcibly pulled free when the HHN’s goon jerks away. The smell of singed meat reaches his nose and he can see the mercenary’s hand visibly smoking from where it caught most of Yuri’s lightning.

His thoughts race as he breaks into a fast run, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a taxi while weaving around pedestrians.

_They know my face now_.

Indignant curses follow him when he blazes through crosswalks without any regard for traffic, ducking down random side streets and alleyways to lose the tail he may or may not have.

He comes to a ragged stop at King’s Cross, nearly sick and shaky with adrenaline, doubled over with his hands on his knees. His hand goes to the Tags dangling from his neck towards the dirty concrete and he tucks them back underneath the collar of his shirt, still warm against his chest.

The bathrooms at the train station are busy and nobody notices when he slips into a stall and disappears.

He takes a seat on the porch as the first tentative rays of sun start to lighten the dark Chicago sky, leaning over his lap and taking deep breaths in through his nose until the nausea goes away. His phone suddenly rings and he startled, nearly toppling sideways into a flowering bush while he scrambles to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Agent Plisetsky?”

“Dr. Park,” Yuri blinks, “You’re up early.” The archivist takes a shaky breath on the other end of the line and Yuri frowns, “Is…everything okay?”

“I don’t believe everything is,” Dr. Park replied, his voice hoarse. Dread turns Yuri’s insides into cold leaden mush and he tries to take a deep breath.

“That bad, huh?”

“I did as you asked, and…I think, your friend was dead.”

“I’m…sorry?” Yuri stared unseeingly into the garden.

“One of the Han-lim on his chest is the written word for soul or spirit. It’s…placement is particular to our funeral rites.”

“I thought you said using Han-lim on the dead was sacrilege,” Yuri hissed into the phone.

“It is,” the archivist agreed, “We use it on the dying. The elderly and the sick who are nearing their time, to prevent their souls from splintering during the journey to the afterlife.”

Yuri makes a note to do more research on the Beast clans of Fae – in particular the Dragonbeasts and their cultural practices. Talking to Dr. Park, it’s clear there’s a wide gap in his education when it comes to Fae.

“They’ve used it improperly,” Dr. Park continued, “they used it to _anchor_ the soul to the body.”

“So, what, you’re telling me my guy’s a zombie?” Yuri tried to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, but only managed a hollow wheeze and a grimace.

“I’m not sure _what_ he is,” Dr. Park slowly, his voice trembling, “but, I don’t think he’s human anymore. The Han-lim on his body read like a blueprint, but…not quite? I’ve only ever seen such delicate work done by the ancients.”

“What do you mean ‘not quite’?” Yuri pressed.

“It…doesn’t feel complete somehow,” Dr. Park said quickly, “Which, doesn’t make any sense. I mean, what’s the point of instructions without an endgame, right?”

“It makes sense,” Yuri replied darkly, “because they’re _not_ finished.” That’s why they want him back. But, why let him go for this long? Why let him go on with his life only to cruelly come in and derail it later?

“Oh,” Dr. Park breathed, then cleared his throat, “You…must know something I don’t.”

“Let’s keep it that way, yeah? I dunno what kind of connections these people got,” Yuri said grimly, “There’s a chance they’ll come after you for helping me at all.” Dr. Park laughs nervously on the other end of the line.

“I seriously hope these are just paranoid ramblings, Agent,” there’s an edge of hysteria to the archivist’s voice and Yuri knows the Dragonbeast is aware that this is all too real and is likely on the edge of a reasonably sized breakdown. “I’ll keep working on it and see if I can get more answers for you.”

“Thanks.” Yuri hangs up and then lies down on the porch, electing to take part in his own meltdown, because _how in the fuck is he supposed to tell Otabek?_ He stares up at the wooden support beams until he’s forced to blink. If he lets his eyes go unfocused just so he can just about make out the slight shimmer of Jade’s intricate airtight Wards.

They’d barely gotten into the gritty details of demonic possession – what _really_ happens in the event of a demon taking over a fragile human body – before Otabek looked like he was about to have a crisis. There’s no way the news that his body has been permanently altered – no, not just _altered_. He was _killed_ and then _brought back to life_, for the sake of a dumb experiment apparently sanctioned by the magical government.

Sitting on this for much longer would make him a shitty person. Otabek deserves to know before something happens and the HHN attempts to finish whatever the hell it is they started.

Across the street, he hears the jingling of keys and then the sound of a car being started. Jade’s neighbors are officially awake and starting to go about their day and here he is lying conspicuously on her porch like some sort of vagrant.

Moping time officially over, he goes inside where Jade is already awake – still in her pajamas – and beating some eggs with a fork. “You look like shit,” she says, but pointedly doesn’t ask where he’s been which he’s grateful for.

He takes his cue to go upstairs and take a long hot shower.

_I could sleep here_, he thinks, closing his eyes under the spray. He should be icing his cheek instead of encouraging the swelling, but the heat feels damn good. He takes his time washing his hair with the mildly scented shampoo, carefully raking the suds through with his fingers and rinsing thoroughly before doing the same with the conditioner.

Otabek and Jade are already helping themselves to the feast by the time he goes back downstairs, and he joins them at the table, eating in silence for a while before Jade inevitably comments on his manners again while giving him a pointed look with her mismatched eyes.

After breakfast is over and Otabek expresses a desire to bathe, Yuri steels his nerves and tells Otabek to meet him in the study, “I gotta tell you some stuff.”

_Smooth, Yuri. Real smooth. Not like we’re about to discuss the fact that he’s a freak of nature now. _

He grimaces and conjures some clean clothes for the figure skater, laying them on the bed and shutting himself in the study for some much-needed solace before he drops the bomb. He searches Jade’s extensive library for books on Fae, picking out a dusty paperback that seems helpful, but he just can’t get his brain to focus.

Fuck, this is why his job has never been to comfort victims. He’s shit at coming up with the right thing to say.

_Okay, if I were James or Ambrose what would I say?_

His brain gives him nada. Zip. Zilch. Totally blank.

He peeks around the winged-out sides of the armchair he’s buried in and sees Otabek staring, totally nonplussed, at the 1952 vintage Cadillac that Jade has been painstakingly restoring for what feels like a decade.

“She works on it when she has the time,” he says, and the skater visibly starts.

“Cool,” he nodded, “So…is this going to be a good talk?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘good’,” Yuri finally says, “Have a seat.”

Otabek gives him the side-eye and sits on the loveseat, “Is this the part where you tell me I can’t go home?”

“I don’t need to,” Yuri tells him, “You already knew that part.”

Otabek swallows hard and looks at his knees, “I can’t just vanish. I have-“

“A life? I’m well aware,” Yuri sighs and closes the book in his lap, “Look, I talked with Dr. Park.” Otabek looks up, expectant and waiting. “I, um…based on what he told me, there’s a strong possibility that you’re not human anymore.”

Otabek stared at him.

Shit. Barely five seconds in and he’s already screwing it up.

“He, uh, translated your scars and he theorized that you were dead, at some point. You were most likely resuscitated and the Han-lim has been acting as a blueprint, to guide your body into a slow gradual change.”

“Change? Change into-into what?” Otabek asked, “What’s going to happen to me?”

“I don’t know,” Yuri admitted, “Colin is still working on it, and hopefully he can come up with more answers.” He wants to tell him there’s a way to reverse it, a way to go back to being just as he was, but as cruel as delivering this news is, giving him false hope would be even crueler and Yuri already feels sick. “Otabek, I-I’m so…I’m really sorry.”

“Why are _you_ sorry?” Otabek asked, frowning at the floor, “You’re not the one who kidnapped me or turned me into this. Whatever _this_ is.” He stands and starts pacing the room, his gait a little awkward with the walking boot, careful to avoid bumping any of the precarious stacks of books. “I, um, I’d like some time to think, please.”

Yuri takes the book with him when he quietly exits the study, finding Jade still in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.

“So, how’d it go?” she asked.

“Horribly,” he tells her, “I bungled it. Now I’m sure he hates all of magic-kind. I didn’t even get to the part where apparently his treatment was sanctioned by the government.”

“Baby steps,” Jade said, “I can talk to him, if you like. Then we can plot the government take-down later.”

“What happened to ‘this is _your_ problem and you’re gonna solve it like an adult’?” Yuri raised an eyebrow.

“This isn’t a training exercise. This is real,” Jade said shortly, “And I never said anything about not accepting help ever.”

“If you can make him feel any better about this shitty situation, be my guest,” Yuri said, “Because I sure as fuck can’t.” he’d already tried apologizing and _that_ didn’t work.

Jade makes a low noise in the back of her throat that implies her agreement and Yuri huffs.

“You should get some sleep,” she said, “You won’t be much use like this.”

“I’ve tried,” he admitted grudgingly, “I just…can’t.” the frown on her face is not so much disapproval as it is concern but it makes Yuri bristle anyway. She stands from the table and goes to the pantry, rummaging for a moment before emerging with a tiny clear vial. She unscrews the lid and squeezes the rubber top to suction some of the liquid inside the dropper. He knows a sleeping draught when he sees one and he immediately balks.

“I don’t want it,” he says.

“I thought the same thing,” she tells him grimly, “But you’re going to drop dead if you keep going like this.” he purses his lips and eyes the vial like it’s cursed. “Speaking from experience, if you don’t want to become dependent on it, going to therapy and talking to someone will keep you from reaching for it.” the idea of his mentor – indomitable, magic-expert Jade – becoming dependent on something as simple as a sleeping draught baffles him. But he looks at the solemn set to her jaw and he feels so…_tired_.

She places two drops on his tongue and the taste reminds him of the _ryazhenka _his mom used to make and something in his chest twists. The draught makes sinking into sleep easy, like submerging into a warm bath and all the noise between his ears goes blessedly silent.

It’s strange to wake up naturally for once, his Circadian rhythm tapering off into wakefulness and he blinks into the waning darkness of very early dawn. Outside, the sky is just beginning to turn from black to navy and his mouth tastes…weird. He smacks his lips while reaching for his phone.

“Holy shit.” He’d slept for _sixteen_ hours. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and berates himself for letting Jade convince him to take the draught. The Wards on her house are airtight and there’s a slim chance they’ll be able to track either him or Otabek while they’re safely ensconced within them, but he still feels like he’s wasted so much time.

Still…he has a better understanding of just why people become so dependent on sleeping draughts. He can’t remember the last time he woken up feeling so well rested. It’s strange. There’s no brain fog or lingering unease from his tumultuous dreamscapes. Then again, his joints are cracking in weird ways and he kind of feels crusty after sleeping for so long.

_I even _look_ crusty_, he wrinkles his nose at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There are eye boogers dried in his lashes and uneven fine blonde fuzz starting to crop up on his jaw and cheeks.

If he feels better after a shave, he’s phenomenal after a hot shower. He breathes in the soothing smell of rosemary and mint while he happily wraps himself and his hair in separate fluffy towels. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror – skin flushed pink from the hot water – he sees significant improvement. He opens the bathroom door and runs straight into Otabek, “Jesus Christ!”

“Nope,” Otabek says, voice still hoarse with sleep, “Just me.”

“True comedic genius,” Yuri deadpanned, “Really.” He dodges around the sleepy figure skater who’d clearly woken up needing to take a piss and pads back down the hall to his room to get dressed in peace and maybe, finally, come up with a game plan.

Once he’s dressed, he quietly goes downstairs to make himself a much-needed cup of tea. Jade is already in the kitchen, partially dressed in her combat blacks and nibbling absently on a plain untoasted bagel while her glazed eyes stare unseeingly at the wooden tabletop.

“Going out?” he asked.

“Mm.”

He turns on the Keurig and goes rummaging for the tea box while it warms up. Pulling down mugs as he goes and clicking his tongue when opening multiple cabinets and stretching up on his tiptoes to see in the crevices of the higher shelves produces no tea box. Behind him he hears Jade quietly push back from the table and she comes to stand next to him, reaching over his head for her large travel thermos and proceeds to fill it with coffee.

“Try to limit the outings to a bare minimum, yeah?” Jade said, “Especially at night.”

“Sure, mom,” Yuri muttered, “Whatever you say.”

“Fine,” Jade sighed, affixing the lid to her thermos, “Get eaten. Whatever. I’m going to work.”

“Have fun,” Yuri sang. He doesn’t have to have eyes in the back of his head to know she flipped him off on her way out and he suppresses a snicker. He paused when he heard Otabek’s uneven gait on the last few stairs before continuing his search.

“Mind if I join you?” 

Yuri snorted, his fingers finally snagging the edge of the tea box, “You’ll have to make your own.”

Otabek takes his tea with a splash of plain cold milk from the fridge after letting the leaves steep for several minutes, foregoing any sweetener while Yuri takes his with three heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar and a generous splash of cream.

“I never thanked you properly,” Otabek says.

“For what?” Yuri snorted into his cup before taking a lukewarm snip.

“You basically put your life on hold to save mine,” Otabek said, “I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you.”

“Well, I had help with the second bit,” Yuri mumbled. Thinking about Ambrose means thinking about the colossal scolding he’s in for. Yuri frowned, “I’m surprised you don’t hate me.”

Otabek blinked, “Why would I hate you?”

“Not just me,” Yuri amended, “All of magic-kind. The magical government essentially sanctioned what happened to you. Warlocks and witches had a hand in…whatever this is.” He waves a hand vaguely at the scars on Otabek’s forearm. “There’s no guarantee you’ll be able to go back to your old life after this is all over.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s your fault,” Otabek said, “Am I angry? Yeah. But, not at you. You’re the one trying to make things right. Being mad at you would be throwing the baby out with the bathwater.”

“Baby?” Yuri squints, “What does a baby have to do with this?”

“It’s…” Otabek sighed, “another weird American saying. It means, I’m not going to discount all you’ve done for me just because some of magic-kind are assholes. I mean, some humans are trash. Do you hate me?”

“Well, no,” Yuri mumbled.

“See?”

“This isn’t normal assholery though,” Yuri argued, “This is…changing you against your will. It’s wrong.”

“You’re right,” Otabek agreed, his voice tight, “It _is_ wrong. But I’ve decided I’m not going to let it define me. I’m still a figure skater. I’m still a younger brother, and a son. I still love music. They haven’t changed the parts of me that are important and I’m not going to let them.”

Yuri stares. Most people would take months – years! – to come to terms with shit like this. Part of him suspects Otabek is only this calm because his retrograde amnesia is so severe.

_No. He’s just _that_ stubborn_.

Yuri can respect that. He takes a sip of his tea.

“Oh, and thanks,” Otabek adds, staring hard into his mug like it holds the answers to the universe, “for getting my boot and my phone.”

“You’re welcome,” Yuri grumbled.

“See?” Otabek chortled, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Fuck off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment when you realize your outline has kinda gone out the window because you initially planned for 18 chapters but now we're on 16 and the plot is just a teensy bit behind. [insert nervous laughter]
> 
> Also, quick disclaimer: Ambien has super weird side effects and it scares the shit out of me, so...don't. Just don't. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated! <3


	17. I Wish I Had a Ham Sandwich to Calm My Nerves

_September 2024; Chicago_

_Something is…different. Even though everything looks the same_. _The room is still dark, only lit by the glow of the monitor. He can feel the electrodes stuck to his chest, tracking his heart rate. When he glances up to see his own vitals, he pauses-_

_The darkness is missing. _

_That patch of shadow that has been his companion for weeks and weeks has suddenly vanished. _

_But, there’s still the feeling of being watched. _

He can hear the chirping of birds outside and warm sunshine pours into the guest room through the window. He’s going to get spoiled by all this sleeping in if he’s not careful. If he ever gets to back to living his life it’ll be hard acclimating to his old routine.

Otabek gets out of bed and goes downstairs. Yuri is already in the kitchen, slathering peanut butter on a bagel. His cheekbone is still discolored, an ash gray bruise instead of the violent purple-blue-red of a hit taken to the face.

“You know, most people say, ‘good morning’,” Yuri said, “and _then_ they stare.”

“Good morning. Sorry,” Otabek muttered, “Um…what happened to your face?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yuri said, “Coffee?”

“I shouldn’t,” Otabek declined and Yuri shrugged before taking his breakfast with him to the table.

Otabek looks longingly at the bagels before sighing and reaching for the whole grain loaf instead to make himself some moderately healthier peanut butter toast. The tea box is still down on the counter from yesterday and he makes himself a piping hot cuppa since he’s already cheated far too many times and had several cups of coffee in the past three days. He takes a seat at the table with Yuri, unable to help the way his gaze goes directly to that discolored skin before he forcibly redirects it to his plate.

They eat in silence until Yuri says, “I’m, um, going to be gone for a little bit. I don’t know when Jade will be back, but, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to stay inside.”

“No,” Otabek said, licking a bit of stray peanut butter from the corner of his mouth, “I figured wandering off wouldn’t be smart, even if the cabin fever is starting to settle in.”

“The Wards keep the HHN from tracking you,” Yuri tells him, “But, if everything goes to plan you won’t have to hide here for much longer.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do to help,” Otabek said, “Let me know.”

“You can help by staying inside,” Yuri said, pushing back from the table and taking his dishes to the sink, “especially at night.”

Otabek has lived in big cities for the majority of his life and he’s familiar with how the crime rate tends to work when you get a lot of people practically living on top of one another, but, “Is it that bad here?”

“It’s normally pretty bad, but Jade says it’s been getting worse,” Yuri said, “the rate of demonic incidents has been climbing. Her Unit has been getting called in more and more often.”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say nighttime is dangerous.”

“The IMC is refusing to release a statement even though six Hunters were killed in the past week,” Yuri says sourly, pouring himself another cup of coffee, “The Agency’s taken it upon themselves to quietly warn magical communities to avoid going out at night.”

“And the IMC is…?”

“The government,” Yuri said, “Try and keep up, will you?”

“I thought the magic world would be, I dunno, more enlightened?”

Yuri lets out a sarcastic bark of laughter around the lip of his mug before taking a sip, “’More enlightened’. You crack me up. You forget these assholes sanctioned the experiments that you were unwillingly a part of. I don’t know much about mundane politics, but the IMC thinks they’re entitled to just about everything. But _that_ is a conversation for another time.” Yuri puts his cup in the sink, “I’m out.”

The Warlock makes his unceremonious exit and after that it’s just silence.

He takes the opportunity to really explore now that it’s just him. Before, he was content to mope in his room but now that he’s determined not to mope, he takes a look around. He’s already familiar with the study and how it’s easily too big for the rest of the house. There’s a wall of framed photos in the entry corridor that he takes a gander at. A lot of the photos feature people he assumes are other Exorcists. He lingers on a photo of a younger Yuri in a maroon graduation cap and gown, smiling so hard his eyes are squinted shut, with Jade in formal dress blues and an older gentleman standing to his left, and four people dressed similarly to Jade on the right. Otabek wracks his memories of the past two weeks and can’t remember ever seeing such happiness on the Warlock’s world-weary face.

There’s another photo of Yuri in what looks like a bowling alley, his feet clad in bowling shoes kicked up on the table while he scowls sullenly at the camera. The woman sitting next to him is giving him bunny ears, caught mid-laugh. Otabek squints at the photo because are those _fangs _– ?

He startles when he notices Jade in his peripherals.

“How long have you been standing there?” he wheezed, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart feels like it’s about to burst out and go skittering down the hall.

“Not long,” she answered lightly.

“I, um, I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” he apologized, “I just-“

“It’s no big deal,” Jade waved him off, “If I wanted to hide them, I’d keep them somewhere a little more discreet.” She turns her gaze to the photo he’d been inspecting and taps it with a fingernail, “Gods, I thought he’d never stop growing.”

“How old was he?”

“Seventeen. And he was already one-hundred-eighty centimeters. Shot up like a fucking weed.” 

Otabek whistles and his gaze goes to the photo next to it, where Yuri’s slightly older and wearing similar formal dress attire to the Exorcists in the graduation photo. His uniform is the same dark navy blue but there are no epaulets capping his shoulders, just shiny gunmetal buttons.

“The day he became an initiate,” Jade tapped the frame.

“Hopefully he stopped growing then,” Otabek said and Jade snickered.

“Nope. He had _another_ growth spurt after that,” Jade said, “He was _so_ mad.”

“I’d be too,” Otabek said. He remembers going through puberty in the middle of a competitive season and his coach sending the poor costume designer flowers when he had to get re-sized a fourth time.

“Well,” Jade said, “if you need me, I’ll be out front.”

He notices her shabby clothing and the worn work gloves hanging out of her pocket. She has two baskets on the floor at her feet – one with gardening tools and a little Bluetooth speaker, and the other is completely empty.

“Do you need any help?” Otabek asked, “I’d be happy to even though I don’t have much of a green thumb.”

“I didn’t either,” she replied, “You wouldn’t be planting anything. Just pulling weeds and collecting berries.”

She hands him a worn long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of work gloves just like hers. The shirt is clean with lingering soil stains on the hem of the sleeves. He flexes his fingers in the gloves and the supple worn leather moves with him.

Jade finds a playlist that’s satisfactory and soft music begins playing from the speaker that she sets on the bottom step, out of the way of where they’ll be working, before handing him a basket with an odd trowel in it.

“So, which ones are the weeds?” he asked. He assumes the plants with pretty colorful blooms are not weeds, but he’s not a botanist. She points to an ugly little plant with a long green stem, stubby spiky leaves, and a pitiful little flower growing out the top.

“You’ll pull those,” she said, “There’s also these to watch out for.” She nudges a cluster of dandelions growing at the edge of the stone walkway with her foot, “When you’re done, you can start harvesting the belladonna if I haven’t already.”

It feels good to do something that isn’t sitting around or making sandwiches. It’s only been three days but being stuck inside is starting to make him cagey. There’s only so much Angry Birds he can play, and he’s taken to avoiding his phone entirely with Lauren starting to grow suspicious of his impromptu ‘vacation’. He knows he’s made her worry, and he absolutely hates that he can’t just tell her everything.

He watches Jade use her own trowel at first – digging the pointy bit at the end deep into the soil and then using the handle as a lever to push the weed completely out roots and all – and then starts on his half of the garden while the music fills in the gaps in the working silence.

_. . . I’m only doing anything I want to do, because I do it all the time . . ._

He’s a little hesitant to get the weeds that are growing far too close to the prettier plants, reluctant to damage the undoubtedly delicate roots of these flowers that have probably been growing in charmed soil for who knows how long. He balances carefully on his knee, making sure to keep the pressure off his ankle, and leans over -

“Careful,” Jade says quietly, startling him again and he nearly falls flat over onto a clump of pretty yellow flowers.

“I’m starting to think you really do do that on purpose,” Otabek told her, quickly righting himself and making sure his hand isn’t crushing anything important.

“You don’t have to do this section,” she said, ignoring his comment, “I don’t want to risk waking it.”

“Waking…what?” Otabek follows her gaze to what looks like an absolutely gigantic purple rosebud nestled in the corner against the porch. The petals are tightly furled and the equally gigantic lush green leaves cradling the bud occasionally twitch. “Uh…”

“Shhh,” Jade murmurs, “It’ll be quite cross if we interrupt it’s nap.”

He didn’t even know plants _could_ nap. But, with the way those gigantic leaves occasionally twitch and curl it certainly seems like the purple…thing is dreaming.

“Won’t the music wake it up?” Otabek whispered, scooching back towards the front gate and firmly away from the huge plant.

“Not necessarily,” Jade said, “It likes music just fine. Physically touching it or disturbing the soil around it is a surefire way to piss it off, though.”

“What is it?” Otabek asked.

“A friend of mine that specializes in magical botany is currently trying to figure that out,” Jade said, “We think it might be a Caryophyllale considering it’s carnivorous tendencies. The tentative species name is Halloragis. I’ve just been calling it Audrey.”

He doesn’t ask any more questions, since this is her garden and she’s clearly the expert, though now he’s a thousand percent more concerned than he was when he initially started helping. Still, it gives him something else to dwell on besides the depressing news that he’s some sort of freak of nature now and he appreciates that much at least.

Jade has him change his gloves before he helps her harvest the belladonna.

“If you squish a berry by accident the juice will go right through the hide,” she says, handing him a pair of nitrile gloves, “I have an antidote, but the rash will still be uncomfortable.”

“Rash?” Otabek asked. She gives him a sideways look.

“You do know that belladonna is toxic right?” she said.

“If it’s poison why do you grow it?”

“It’s useful,” she answered. 

_Useful for what? _

The gauge on his level of concern is officially broken. More than maxed out. He’s not sure he can handle much more.

The plant certainly isn’t the prettiest in her garden, with little dusky purple flowers that are almost pitiful to look at compared to the brightly colored buds that liven up the yard. The berries certainly _look_ poisonous – so purple they look black with taut shiny skin that reflect the sunshine.

“Thanks,” Otabek says after several moments of gingerly picking berries in silence, “for, uh, not letting me stew in my own boredom.”

“Why are you thanking me?” Jade snorted, “You’re the one who volunteered for this.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve easily said ‘no’,” Otabek said.

“Yuri told me you’re an athlete,” Jade said, “I figured it couldn’t hurt to put those muscles to work and have some help for once. Therefore, my reasons for letting you help are entirely selfish and undeserving of your gratitude.”

“Oh. Uh…what else did Yuri tell you?” Otabek asked slowly, watching her carefully dislodge the tangle of roots from the soil and toss it into the pile with the others.

“Enough for me to get the gist,” Jade said mildly.

So, she knows. He gnaws on his lip, shifting his weight so he can sit on his bum instead of putting pressure on his still-healing ankle and tries to focus on gathering the remaining berries.

“It’s fine to be uncertain,” Jade continued, “and upset.”

“I’m trying to concentrate on the positives,” Otabek said.

“That’s all fine and great,” Jade said, sitting back on her ankles, “but that doesn’t erase what happened. Positivity isn’t going to make you a human again.”

He’s starting to think blunt honesty is a common trait amongst Exorcists.

_Better than sugarcoating it for me_, he mused, _I guess_.

“I still feel human,” Otabek told her, “I still…I don’t _feel_ any different.”

“Maybe not now,” Jade replied mildly, “but what happens when, perhaps, you realize you’re still young while your loved ones grow old? Or, your bones don’t ache like they should? When you can see things that the humans around you can’t?” She sounds like she’s speaking from experience. He feels like her clouded eye can see straight past his skin to all the ugly thoughts and feelings he’s ever had in his life. “Just a few things to think about, Mr. Altin.”

“I’m…just Otabek is fine,” he says, “I’m a freeloading fugitive staying at your house.”

“You and I have very different definitions of freeloading.”

“I’m not paying you rent or contributing to the household,” Otabek said, “therefore, I’m freeloading.”

Jade let out a snort, “Dear gods, you’re perfect for each other.”

“Uh…what?”

“You’re just as bad as he is,” Jade said, “Thinking accepting help makes you a charity case. With Yuri, it’s understandable. He spent most of his life dirt poor. I’ve tried to teach him that accepting help doesn’t equate to weakness, but,” she gestures to Otabek, “look how well that turned out.”

“I just hate causing other people trouble,” Otabek said and Jade scoffed.

“If you were causing me trouble you’d be out on the street,” Jade said, “instead, here you are, helping me in my garden. You’re a good person, Otabek and you care about Yuri a lot, which, I’m not going to lie, earned you a considerable amount of points. He’s not the easiest person to love.”

“He’s a good person too. A good friend,” Otabek told her, firmly ignoring the bit about ‘love’, “even with the whole witness protection thing.”

Jade gives him an unreadable look, “Friendship, huh?” she says, “How sweet.”

Somehow, he gets the impression that she’s making fun of him but he’s not entirely sure what for. He’s a grown-ass man who’s allowed to have a wholesome friendship with the Warlock who put his life on hold to make sure Otabek doesn’t get turned into some kind of mutant.

“Okay,” Jade grunts, getting to her feet and stretching, “I’m starving so, I’m going to order lunch. Grab the basket and bring it inside, will you?”

She leaves him alone in her garden full of toxic plants, scooping up her Bluetooth speaker on the way back inside. He carefully gets to his feet with a sigh, picking up the basket of belladonna berries and carrying it with him to the porch steps where he carefully unstraps his boot to shake out all the soil that had gotten inside it. Boot back on, he nudges the door shut behind him and sets the basket down just as Jade dashes up the stairs while cursing a blue streak.

Otabek blinks, totally nonplussed before traipsing into the kitchen for a glass of water and then back up the stairs for yet another shower. When he reaches the landing, he glimpses Jade in her bedroom at the very end of the hall, dressed for combat just before she disappears into a Portal.

There’s still a great deal of daylight out, and a part of him is curious about what kind of demon comes out when the sun is still up.

And, oh wow, it’s still weird to think that demons are completely real and there are people who actually go out and fight them. It’s like living in a TV show or something. Even stranger still is the way he’s gotten used to being around magic and magical people. Seeing the dishes clean themselves or the broom sweep up dust bunnies hardly fazes him anymore.

_I’ll miss it_, he realizes, while standing in the shower. Not the easy convenience of the chores literally doing themselves, but the reminder of all the possibilities. There’s an entirely other world embedded in the one he’s lived in and explored for the majority of his life, now he may never get the opportunity to see it. He’ll either be dead (or something equally awful) or back to the grind of competition with the occasional rave out in the desert.

He wants to go back, of course. He misses the hype of competition and showing off his hard work. He misses seeing his skater friends that he doesn’t get to connect with very often because of timezones and grueling schedules.

After his shower, the house is back to feeling way too large. He meanders into the kitchen where he helps himself to some of the leftovers and sits at the table to eat. The clink of his silverware against his bowl feels too loud in the quiet. He cleans his dishes and puts them away when he’s done before wandering back over to the wall of photos.

He pauses when he sees a black and white photo of a younger Jade. It looks legitimate – her dark hair parted neatly down the middle and pinned conservatively away from her face. Her dress is decidedly old-fashioned with a lace-trimmed collar buttoned to the base of her throat, while the man standing at her shoulder is wearing a three-piece suit with a stovepipe top hat dangling loosely from the fingers of his free hand.

_Holy shit_.

He has to get his phone to do a Google for when photographs were invented again, and he goggles when he realizes that if that photo is actually real (and he suspects it is) then Jade is _at least_ one-hundred-sixty years old.

_Just how long do Warlocks live? _

He remembers what she said about outliving loved ones and a cold feeling steals over him when he thinks of outliving his closest relatives and seeing his nieces and nephew grow up to have kids of their own and then watching _them_ pass on.

Oh.

He hopes to find a distraction from his heavy thoughts in Jade’s study. There are so many books he spends what feels like several hours just looking at the titles and hoping something jumps out at him. There are books on tinctures and potions, several old tomes on herbalism and medicine. He finds a copy of Darwin’s _On the Origin of Species_ that has to at least be a well-preserved first or second edition. There’s an entire shelf on demonology – old leather-bound books next to modern thick paperbacks. He flips through one of the latter, finds it’s entirely about nomenclature, and puts it back.

He finds a novel with a description that sounds fairly interesting. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to take it out of the study, so he sits in the squashy armchair and starts to read.

He starts to feel warm and sleepy around chapter five and halfway through chapter six he nods off, slumping in the squishy comfort of the chair with golden sunshine still pouring warmth into the study. . .

. . . _The street is dark and slick with rain. He recognizes the silhouette of houses in the eerie glow of the streetlamps and knows he’s still on Jade’s street. Her house is at his back, the flowery smell of her garden amplified after the cloudburst. _

_He’s being watched. _

_Chills skitter along his forearms and along his spine when he sees the patch of disembodied shadow standing just eight feet away. _

_“What are you?” he asked. The silence is expected considering it doesn’t have a mouth to respond with. “What do you want from me?” _

_He should go back inside but this thing has been literally haunting his dreams for months and he’s sick of it. His feet are already moving, marching him resolutely forward until he’s within a couple feet of the shadow. But then it dissolves and reappears several feet away, further down the street. _

_Otabek glares at it, coming to a dead stop, “Are you seriously going to make me chase you?” _

_No answer. Of fucking course. _

_He gets further and further down the street, venturing out of suburban territory. The neon lights from storefronts and the whisper of cars occasionally driving by break up the otherwise tranquil city night. And still, the shadow continues to evade him luring him further and further. _

_There’s a moment where he gets close enough to swipe out a hand – which, in hindsight was totally stupid because shadows aren’t fucking corporeal – and a sharp bitter chill radiates up his arm. The darkness clings to his fingers for a moment before dissipating and reappearing several feet away. He feels his lip curl in annoyance and takes a step forward just as the public telephone off to his left starts to ring and ring and ring. It stops for a second, but when he takes another step forward it starts to ring again, the sound somehow more insistent. _

_The shadow waits patiently while he strides up to the glass booth and plucks the phone off the receiver mid-ring and holds it up to his ear, “Uh…hello?” _

_“You’re doing very well, Mr. Altin,” says the mild voice on the other end. _

_“Who is this?” _

_“The ATM across the street, can you see it?” _

_“Yes…?” he side-eyes said battered ATM, the alcove dimly lit with a poorly maintained overhead light that flickers occasionally. _

_“Very good. Several feet from the ATM there is a door. You will open it and walk inside.” _

_He wants to ask why and demand answers but he’s already moving to hang up the phone. His feet carry him to the door as instructed and the handle turns easily. The long corridor on the other side is well-lit and he follows it to a sterile grey room, all the while he can feel the lingering gaze of his shadow on the back of his neck. _

_“Welcome back, Otabek.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gardening makes for some good therapy. Dunno what it is about digging your hands in soil that is so cathartic. I could do without the bugs tho (yes, I _know_ they're an important part of the ecosystem, but I don't _care_ about that when critters are flying/crawling/crittering up my nose.) 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated! <3
> 
> Song credits: Do It All the Time - I Don't Know How But They Found Me


	18. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief depiction of a panic attack. After the first "Oh shit" you may skip to "My what a mouth you have." to avoid potential triggers.

_September 2024; Fort Lauderdale_

He slipped into the building behind the security officer and carefully matched his plodding footfalls to avoid any unnecessary suspicion while he followed the old man to the security office. His one other colleague had his eyes glued to his tablet, watching the latest Netflix original garbage. Yuri rolled his eyes and promptly swiped the badge left unattended on the table.

He’d learned on his first go that many places in the Ensign Health building required badge access due to the healthcare corporation storing and retaining personal health information. The structure of the building is fairly cut and dry – each floor is chock full of cubicles where the worker ants toil their lives away. The floor where the upper echelons of the company spend their days politicking and being corporate pains in the ass also requires badge access – probably because they don’t want unauthorized individuals bearing witness to their assholery. The card readers had been charmed against magical tampering (a fact Yuri had also discovered the hard way his first go around) and thus it was easier to swipe a badge and sneak around as his invisible self. 

Yuri slips into the elevator with two mundanes, squashing himself into a corner where he’s less liable to be stepped on.

“What was even the point of that meeting?” complained one to the other, “I could’ve gone to Panera and instead, we got thirty minutes of Brandon talking out his ass.”

“Oh hell, don’t even mention food right now,” said the second.

The elevator dinged and Yuri was spared the rest of their boring conversation, jamming his finger into the button for the top floor and then holding down the switch to close the doors. The rest of his ride up isn’t interrupted by any of the Ensign Health lackeys and he steps out of the elevator when it comes to a stop.

There were no cameras or guards outside the office where he assumed Ashlyn did all of her dastardly scheming. There’s a desk for the CEO’s secretary that’s conspicuously empty, which Yuri takes as a sign that the boss lady is currently out and about, which gives him plenty of room to search.

“_Fumus detego_.” he blew through the end of his fist, fine white smoke streaming from his fist. Surprisingly, there are no Trap Matrices on the doors but there is a huge one surrounding Ashlyn’s desk. Disabling it will take precious time. So much for a quick get-what-I-need-and-get-out situation.

He doesn’t get halfway across the office before he meets invisible resistance.

“What the fuck?” he hissed, pressing his hand to the barrier and it starts to glow red-hot in warning. He snatches his hand back and looks around for the anchor – “Oh shit.”

It’s not a barrier. He’s been Trapped.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

The Matrix underneath his feet glows an ominous red and its far more intricate than what he’s used to seeing. He’d bet money there’s some fucking stealth charm embedded into the spell otherwise his smoke screen would’ve made it visible and he could have avoided this whole fucking mess. He grits his teeth and throws a lightning-charged punch at the barrier.

Unsurprisingly, not only does that not work but his lightning is _absorbed_.

“Shit.”

Trying to reach Katsudon to get a crash course in disabling Trap Matrices goes about as well as one could expect (straight to voicemail).

He tries Jade but the phone rings and rings and rings before going to voicemail.

“Come _on_,” he growls, hitting redial, “Pick _up_.”

When it goes to voicemail again, he sends a text instead.

Professor Bitch   
  
Fucking HELP ME.   
  
I'm TRAPPED in fucking FLORIDA. 

He’s pretty sure she’ll ream him later for forgetting some lesson about how to disable Trap Matrices but he’s more focused on getting out of here. If she’s on a Hunt it could be _hours_ before he gets a reply and he does _not_ have that kind of time.

He paces around the Trap, aiming the occasional kick at the barrier while trying not to panic about the fact that he’s a fucking sitting duck until he’s either rescued or Jade finally calls him back to tell him how the fuck to get out of this mess. His only consolation is that Otabek is safe in Chicago behind Jade’s Wards.

_For now_, a part of his brain adds ominously, _until they interrogate you and rifle through your memories._

He _really_ needs to get out of here. His head is starting to hurt.

Danny   
  
Quick. How do I disable a Trap Matrix from the inside?

His phone buzzes with a reply almost a minute later.

Danny   
  
??? WTF Yuri??   
  
You have to cast the anti-configuration on top of it.   
  
This is Common Practices 101   
  
I fucking forgot okay!!   
  
I'll sketch it for you and send a pic.

He blinks at the screen, struggling to focus. His head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton and light as a feather all at the same time. Yuri lowers himself down to sit on the floor – nearly falling over in the process – and the sudden fatigue smacks him over the head. His eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds and each blink is getting longer and longer no matter how much he tries to focus. His tongue feels thick in his mouth as he tries to cast a counterspell against the sedative shutting down his faculties and, predictably, bungles it. He’s vaguely aware of his weight going strangely sideways and his cheek pressing into the hard carpeting. . .

_The pews are all empty and his footsteps are muffled against the carpeted aisle as he walks up towards the altar where a figure in black robes is kneeling. _

_He doesn’t remember the church being so fucking cold. There’s frost creeping up the stems of the tall candleholders and glittering icicles hanging off the pews. He draws his jacket closer around him in an effort to shut out the biting chill._

_“Father Dominic?” he asked, his breath forming little white clouds with each syllable, “I told you, you have to evacuate. It’s not safe for you here.” _

_The priest didn’t move, still remained kneeling in quiet prayer and Yuri frowned. _

_The church was oddly silent. He knew from past visits that the choir liked to practice around this time in the afternoon, their voices lifted in haunting unison to a God that may or may not exist. He looked around and startled when he saw the aisle behind him was covered in colorful toxic flora. _

Foxgloves_, he thought. He remembered something about the flowers making heart problems worse or some shit like that and brewing a tea from any parts of the plant could be painfully fatal. It was faintly alarming that they were blooming colorfully despite the frigid environment. _

_“Father Dominic?” he asked again, walking up the aisle a little bit faster, “We have to go. Now.” he reached out, his fingers barely brushing the priest’s robes before the body collapsed and the head went rolling away – _

He wakes up shivering, his body unconsciously curled in on itself to keep the cold out and the restraints on his wrists are digging uncomfortably into his skin. His mouth is uncomfortably dry from whatever sedatives they used, and he gives his head a slight shake to get rid of the lingering fog.

_What the fuck? _

He looks around at the sterile white room he’s in, unsettled from such an old old nightmare. Saint Mary of the Lake hasn’t darkened his dreamscape in literal years. It fucking figured that just being in Chicago for a day or two caused his brain to be inconveniently shitty.

_Hold on a second_ -

His hand comes up so fast, his chest makes a hollow noise when his palm hits it, the press of metal and the weight of the ball-chain conspicuously missing.

_They took my Tags_.

His gut tightens, blood simmering with anger and he reaches for his magic to bust out of the cuffs and take the whole facility down while he’s at it. And…nothing.

Nothing happens. Not even a spark or errant photon between his fingers.

_Oh shit_.

_Oh, shit oh shit ohshitohshitohshit…_

It takes him a moment to realize he feels lightheaded because he’s hyperventilating. The seconds drag by as he tries to get his breathing under control, fighting against the fear sitting on his chest. He props himself up against the wall and takes in shaky inhales, holding them in for a count of seven, and then slowly breathing out. His fingers are still tingly when he calms down enough to assess the restraints.

Unlike standard Agency-issue Suppression cuffs, these restraints don’t limit the movement of his arms. An oversight on their part. He’s just as capable of fighting barehanded as he is with magic. They look like tightly fitted bracelets, completely flat and smooth with no discernable seams which means they were probably charmed on. Trying to get them off would be a waste of energy and its not like he can access his magic anyway. He curses in all the languages he knows, wishing he could just punch something.

“My my, what a mouth you have.” He knows that fucking voice and he glares towards the mouth of the cell where Ashlyn is standing. “Is that any way for an upstanding pillar of the Code to act?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Yuri spat, “you have a problem with my language? I have a problem with you _killing people_.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” she sighed, “We all have our vices.”

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” he demanded, “’We all have our vices’? Are you fucking serious? You killed innocent people, and for what? A stupid experiment?”

“You don’t understand yet, Agent Plisetsky,” Ashlyn said, “But you will.”

“Give me back my fucking magic,” Yuri snarled, “and you’ll see just how well I understand.”

“I’ll pass,” Ashlyn smiled.

The wall turns opaque again, cutting off his view of the smug CEO. Gods, Yuri fucking hates her. He glares at the anti-magic restraints, the absence of his power beneath his skin leaving him feeling colder and angrier than ever. Like an animal backed into a corner.

He loses track of time in that white room with no windows or ways to tell time, but he’s pretty sure they’ve had him in their custody for about half a day. He knows Danny will tell Ambrose and James about his getting himself stuck in a Trap and eventually one of them will call to check in only for the call to go straight to voicemail. Jade’s probably wondering where the fuck he ran off to and she’s probably gonna ream him for that too.

There’s no telling how long he has here, especially if Ashlyn’s looking to get revenge for keeping her precious test subject out of her hands for so long. If he were her, he’d make the dying slow to make up for all the wasted time and resources.

_Fuck, that’s morbid, Plisetsky_.

He rests his head against the wall with a low dry chortle, hoping that Otabek is doing as he was told to do and staying the fuck inside.

Enough time passes that hunger starts to gnaw away at his insides. A desolate little gurgle cuts through the silence and he shoots a glare at his abdomen before leaning his head back against the wall.

Starving to death sounds like a fucking awful way to go…if the dehydration doesn’t kill him first. He licks at his lips and closes his eyes. He doesn’t actively reach for the magic like he’s used to doing, instead going back to an old meditation exercise that Katsudon – and later, Jade – used to have him do.

_You have the same problem I used to have, _Katsudon told him, _just in a different form_. _Your lightning doesn’t like being told what to do and then does exactly what it pleases. Mine just refuses to budge no matter what I tell it. _

Yuuri’s experience as a teacher at a mundane university had translated well to teaching Yuri the basics of learning his affinity. Though the idea of meditating had seemed like some hipster bullshit, he’d made more progress with it than without. Now, turning his focus inward he could feel his magic, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. It felt slippery and scattered though he could still feel a response when he reached for the power.

“Extraordinary.” the wall had turned translucent again, and on the other side was a man in a smart button-up and sharply pressed khakis. He was gaping at Yuri like Yuri was some exotic animal.

“Take a picture, asshole,” Yuri snapped, “it’ll last longer.”

“Is it true you have the gift of plasma manipulation?” the white coat asked.

“Who wants to know?” Yuri glared.

“Siegfried Koeman,” the creep introduces himself, putting a face to the name he’d heard in Vegas. There’s not a single doubt in his mind that this is who Ashlyn was speaking fondly of at that stupid luncheon. Yuri doesn’t bother to offer his own name. They took his fucking Tags; they know damn well who and what he is.

_So, this is the freak that traumatized Dr. Ashworth._ He looks like one of the nerds that gets shaken down for his lunch money in the school yard. The man’s got a fucking _pocket protector_. The only thing missing is the thick coke-bottle glasses. There’s poorly hidden fascination on Siegfried’s face and Yuri feels inexplicably dirty. Like he’s both a circus animal and a rat in a too-small cage.

“Unless you’re here to feed me or release me, then go the fuck away,” Yuri said, “I can smell your weirdness from here.”

“You haven’t been fed?” Siegfried sounded affronted, “Oh no no no. That won’t do.” he immediately went puttering off, the wall flickering and going opaque once he was gone. Yuri made an annoyed sound and sat back against the wall; his focus entirely destroyed by the impromptu visit from Ashlyn’s zealous pet.

He opens his eyes at the scrape of plastic across the floor and a tray comes to a sliding stop by his leg. He looks up at Siegfried standing outside the room who watches him eagerly like a puppy waiting for praise from its master.

“What’s the catch?” Yuri asked, eyeing the individually wrapped sandwich and plastic bottle of water.

“No catch,” the creep replied, “Keeping you healthy is a priority.”

Yuri runs his tongue over his teeth and picks up the sandwich, tearing open the plastic and taking a bite. Soft bread, overly sweetened jelly, and sticky peanut butter fills his mouth, and he takes slow bites, knowing very well that for all Siegfried’s talk, there is a possibility they won’t feed him again for a long while.

“I’ll make sure you’re brought regular meals,” Siegfried continued, “It wouldn’t do to have you die of starvation before I get the chance to see what you can do.”

It takes all of Yuri’s willpower to keep chewing like he’s unaffected, though his stomach immediately wants to revolt.

Yuri can just about make out distant shouting and panicked yells, and Siegfried heaves an exasperated long-suffering sigh, “Yes yes, I’m coming.” he turns towards the noise and his determined strides quickly fade.

The wall becomes opaque again and Yuri claps a hand over his mouth.

_Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up_. He set the sandwich back on the tray and took deep breaths through his nose, waiting for his stomach to settle. He hesitates before reaching for the bottle of water, twisting off the cap and taking a careful sip. He doesn’t taste or smell anything off, so they’re not trying to drug him. He waits for the nausea to go away before he even attempts to eat or drink more, consuming the sandwich in small bites and the water in ginger sips.

In another other circumstances, the sandwich would be just enough to piss him off and make him even hangrier, but his appetite has shriveled up as it dawns on him that Ashlyn’s revenge is giving him to her pet freak scientist to be used as a lab rat.

Siegfried said he’d wanted to see what he could do, that means eventually Siegfried will take the anti-magic restraints off and all Yuri has to do is wait for the opportunity.

Boredom is quick to set in, especially in an empty room with blank white walls.

He plays with the half-empty bottle of water until eventually he can get it to flip perfectly every single time.

He does push-ups and sit-ups until his arms and abs are screaming and there’s nothing left to do but lay on his back, stare at the blank ceiling, and contemplate the hellish prospect of living out the rest of his life in this fucking room.

When he wakes up from his nap there’s another tray of food waiting for him. The salmon is bland and slightly overcooked, and the sides are nothing to write home about – broccoli and rice – but he doesn’t really have room to complain.

It’s far too easy to lose track of time in a room where there are no ways to tell how much time has passed except for the way he feels disgusting after sitting in the same clothes. At that point, he knows it’s been at least a day and a half.

One morning – afternoon? – he’s woken up by being doused with cold water by the jets that have appeared in the ceiling, leaving him shivering and wet but smelling less like a vagrant. He glares at the clean clothes that appear in the one dry spot near the main wall that’s currently opaque and remains in his wet clothes for as long as possible just to spite them before he bites the bullet and changes. The white cotton scrubs cling to his damp skin and his hair hangs around his face in gross clumps.

They feed him after that – dry turkey on equally dry rye and a cup of the blandest chicken noodle soup he’s ever tasted in his life. Siegfried comes to visit while Yuri’s trying to choke down the sandwich, “Oh good. Someone did bring you lunch.”

“Your chefs suck major ass,” Yuri says acerbically, “Haven’t they ever heard of seasoning? Salt and pepper?”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your critiques,” Siegfried said blandly, “How many volts can you generate at a time?”

“Beats the fuck outta me,” Yuri answered, “I don’t measure that shit quantitatively.”

“How do you know when the voltage is dangerous then?” Siegfried steps closer, his voice upticking with curiosity. Yuri shrugs a shoulder.

“When who or what I’m aiming at drops dead or explodes. Can I finish my lunch now?”

“Very interesting. I’d like to hook you up to a voltmeter-“

“You hook me up to anything and I’ll kick your fucking teeth out the back of your skull.”

“Have you ever tried to alter someone’s electrophysiology?”

The word immediately triggers flashbacks to homemade PowerPoints and Georgi having _way_ too much fun with the laser pointer. Yuri will never forgive Katsudon and Georgi for going on one of their nerdy tangents during a lecture about sexual reproduction (“I know where the fucking penis goes, Four Eyes!”) and treating him to unwanted biology lessons that were probably more in depth than any boy his age ever had to experience. 

“Fuck no,” Yuri spat, “The fuck do I look like? Some kind of sadist?”

“I don’t know,” Siegfried replied, “What does a sadist look like?”

Yuri sneered at him and goes back to the Herculean task of picking at his lunch. He hopes these ‘visits’ don’t become more frequent. His skin is crawling, and he feels like asking for another shower. He washes down the sandwich with a mouthful of soup and sighs through his nose.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but he wants out. It has to have been fucking days by now and he wonders what kind of obstacles his Unit has run into that have kept them from finding him for this long.

Laying flat on his back, he closes his eyes and breathes deep. In through his nose and out through his mouth, focusing on achieving that calm and reaching for his magic again-

“See?” Yuri’s eyes snap open when he hears Siegfried’s voice (again). He doesn’t know what it is about this guy and coming in when he’s trying to fucking meditate. An exasperated sigh escapes through his nose and he sits up so he can roll over and tell him off for being a creep (again); his blood runs cold when he sees who said creep is talking to.

“Motherfucker,” he breathed, scrambling to his feet and approaching the mouth of the cell for a better look though there’s not a single doubt in his head. Otabek’s got a curious red glow behind his pupils that must be the mark of some kind of Dark enchantment. The absent look – completely devoid of his usual intensity – sends chills down Yuri’s spine and makes his blood boil. “What the hell did you _do_ to him?”

“Not much,” Siegfried said, “Really, it was so fortunate we found him. A blank canvas in its prime.”

Yuri can’t keep himself from reacting even if he wanted to, his lip curling in open disgust, “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Now, that’s uncalled for,” Siegfried frowned at him, “Thanks to me, he is more resilient than any Exorcist in the field. He is a one-man army. Pure evolutionary perfection-“

“You turned off his brain and turned him into a fucking soulless automaton,” Yuri spat, “He has a family, he has a _life_-“

“That’s quite enough,” Ashlyn’s voice split the air, “Back to your room, Otabek. That’s enough stimulation for today.”

His stomach twists into knots watching the figure skater obediently walk away with Siegfried guiding him like he’s some sort of toddler, and he turns his burning gaze on Ashlyn, “You fucking bitch. You turn him into a freak of nature and take away his free will? How’d you even find him?”

“Did you honestly think we wouldn’t have fail-saves in place?” Ashlyn looks at him like he’s the simplest simpleton she’s ever met, “Siegfried was, admittedly, upset that the second phase started earlier than originally planned but, it all worked out in the end. Perhaps for the better. Otabek is the first subject to make it this far, and he will be the template for the others.”

“Others? What others?”

“More Exorcists, Agent Plisetsky,” Ashlyn said patiently, like she’s explaining the fundamentals of life to a toddler, “The kind of power we’ve discovered, the changes we can make. We’ll decrease the loss of life in the field by sixty-perfect.”

“I’m supposed to believe you’re doing this to preserve life?” Yuri snorted, “Bitch, please. Let’s call it what it is: a vanity project to pander to your fucking twisted God complex.”

“I thought you of all people would understand,” she sighed with a disappointed frown, “If your parents had been stronger, they wouldn’t have died so soon.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” he hears his voice say the words, but his lips feel almost numb and he can taste the ozone behind his teeth.

“There’s another infestation spreading across the planet,” Ashlyn continued, “just like the one that killed your parents. With the process perfected, we can fortify the ranks-“

Yuri slaps the wall, “You leave my parents out of this, you fucking megalomaniacal fuckbag. If they were alive, they’d be disgusted! You understand?” The anti-magic restraints start to glow a toxic green – a warning – that Yuri ignores.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Agent-“ Ashlyn warns, her eyes flicking to the spell matrix wrapped tightly around said restraints.

There’s a haze of red creeping in around the edges and despite the pain singing up his arms he reaches for that magic boiling just out of reach until the bracelets crack. The matrix breaks and his bare feet scorch the floor where he stands as his magic comes flooding to the surface. His teeth buzz with the static and he’s nothing but a raw nerve.

Smoke stains the previously pristine walls and he shatters his prison with a yell, the walls collapsing like wet tissue paper and the fire alarm immediately starts to shrill. The overhead sprinklers activate to put out the fire he started, but the droplets evaporate before they can touch him, sizzling out of existence by the heat under his skin.

He turns towards Ashlyn when the anti-magic restraints flicker green and then die for good, “Did you honestly think that would work a second time?” he mimics her patronizing tone from earlier, conjuring a pair of Suppression cuffs, “It’s over. Come quietly and tell me where you stashed Otabek.”

Of course, she does neither of those things. Instead, she turns tail and runs, forcing Yuri to chase her. He lengthens his strides, using his long legs to his advantage and tackling her down when he gets within reach. “Had to make me fucking chase you, huh? Like some goddamn beat cop in a fucking mundane drama,” he growls, locking her wrists into the cuffs and they flash red as they activate. He grabs her and sits her up against the wall, “Stay put. Your pet freak is next.” He hesitates before he walks away and cuffs her ankles together for good measure.

“Ever heard of overkill, Agent?” Ashlyn glares at him, an impressive bruise starting to blossom across her forehead where she made contact with the tile floor.

“You ever heard of shutting the fuck up?” he retorted, resolutely marching away.

He doesn’t run into guards or any security as he walks down the hall. His connection to the aether is tentative without his Tags and making anything concrete will take time and concentration that he just doesn’t have. So, he keeps moving, kicking in any doors and putting any assistants he comes across in cuffs.

The last door in the hallway opens into an empty procedure room with what looks like a gurney with a large overhead light plugged into the wall, and an open tray of medical tools at the bedside.

He’s knocked forward, his knees stinging as they hit the cold tile and he grunts as he tries catching himself only for a hand to tangle in his hair and yank his head back, locking eyes with a familiar face.

“Hello, pretty fish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in Florida sounds like a bad remix of an R. Kelly song. 
> 
> I have many regrets and my outline is giving me judgy looks for totally going over the projected chapter count. [cue more nervous laughter]
> 
> If you're wondering why there's been so many updates this month it's because life is moving fast for me right now and I'm trying to get this finished before I move overseas (not that it matters to the, like, six of you that actually read this). 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated! <3


	19. Mmmm Whatcha Saaaaay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the archive warning for violence.

_October 2024; Somewhere on the Eastern Seaboard_

He doesn’t think he’s ever truly understood what ‘sense of impending doom’ means until this very moment.

“You-“ he barely gets the syllable out before his head is forcibly slammed into the tile floor and dark spots spread like giant ink blots across his vision. A groan catches behind his teeth and he digs his fingers into the minute gaps between the tiles. When he lifts his head, he sees the red smear where his face had met the floor and his fingers come away just as red when he absently touches his forehead.

“I figured I owed you one, for burning my hand,” Ashlyn’s goon holds up his hand and gives his scarred fingers a pointed wiggle.

“Are we even now?” Yuri croaked. The mostly digested contents of his stomach have decided to try and make their way to freedom and it’s very distracting while he struggles to get to his feet. He ends up half-crawling some distance away over to the storage cabinet, his palms sliding with a low squeal as he uses the counter for support.

“I charge interest.” He hears the snick of the lock on the door – Yuri’s main means of exit – being engaged.

“You gave me a concussion,” Yuri replied, “shouldn’t that be payback enough?” he manages to get his feet underneath him and turns to face the mercenary. He’s wearing the same plain teal scrubs as Otabek and he’s got similar scars but they’re fresher. The Han-lim are puckered and pink, almost angry-looking, and unlike Otabek, there’s an air of instability around this guy. Have his eyes always been two different colors? He’s absolutely certain that normal human pupils aren’t supposed to be two different sizes.

“Hm, let’s see,” 2.0 hums, taking his sweet time crossing the floor to where the tray of medical supplies is laid out on that surgical tray, making a show of inspecting each one, “You electrocute me and then leave me stranded in London.” He picks up the scalpel and flips it between his fingers, “The doc has his own plans for you, so I’ll make sure not to hit anything vital.”

“And I thought they only made sadists like you in Hollywood,” Yuri muttered, eyeing the used scalpel.

“And I clearly didn’t hit you hard enough, seeing as you’re still taking,” the mercenary said, brandishing the blade with ease and Yuri manages to focus past his headache enough to push him back with his magic. He hears the sound of a body crashing into a chair and the surgical tray with all its instruments clanging to the floor as he forces himself into a run, grabbing the door and haphazardly sealing it shut behind him. The last syllable of the spell barely leaves his lips when he hears an angry roar and the defined thump of 2.0 ramming it with his shoulder from the other side.

He flinches away from the door and goes staggering away, trying to run for a minute and stopping when he’s nearly sick all over the hallway. The next door he tries is a tiny empty office and he shuts himself inside to get his second wind.

He’s not the greatest at healing and trying to cast a spell on himself is hardly effective. It takes the edge off his headache, but the nausea is persistent, and he leans his head back against the door, taking deep breaths in through his nose.

When he feels well enough to use a little more magic, he conjures his phone and Tags. Predictably, the battery is completely depleted and using his element to concentrate enough power to charge it makes the nausea worse.

The phone turns on but there’s no fucking service wherever they are. Luckily, these people can’t seem to live without Wi-Fi just like the rest of the world and they’re dumb enough not to put password protection on their network.

He scrambles to silence his notifications as Danny’s messages light up his phone.

Danny   
  
[image]    
  
Here.   
  
How'd you end up in a Trap Matrix anyway??   
  
Fine don't tell me.   
  
Did it work??   
  
Yuri I'm serious.   
  
Please let me know you're ok.

There’s eleven missed calls – five from Danny, three from Ambrose, one from Jade, and two from James. He swallows hard and taps Danny’s name to call her back, and it rings twice before the line opens.

“You fucking cock!” Danny shouts, “We’ve got the whole team out looking for you. Scaring me half to death.” Her voice cracks.

“Tell us where you are _now_,” Ambrose says, his voice grim.

“Some hidden facility,” Yuri murmurs, “And I’m pretty sure I have a concussion.” He scratches at the blood that’s partially dried into a sticky crust on his face. He carefully gets up from the floor to poke around the office for anything indicating where he might be. For some reason the GPS on his phone isn’t working and he can’t get an updated date or time.

“Jesus Christ, Yuri,” Ambrose sighed.

“Yeah yeah, you can be mad at me later,” Yuri muttered, “Fuck. I got nothing. You’ll have to find me the old-fashioned way.” He freezes when the handle of the door jiggles, pressing a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his breathing. There’s the sound of the phone changing hands on the other end, and the person trying to get in walks away.

“Yuri, Otabek is-,“ Jade says.

“I know,” Yuri murmured, “He’s here. In the facility.”

There’s collective cursing on the other end of the call.

“I was afraid of that,” Jade says, “There was no sign of a struggle and nothing had gotten past the Wards.”

“The lead guy’s got Dark skills on board. He can manipulate minds,” Yuri said.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Jade muttered.

In the background Yuri hears a familiar booming voice, “We can take, no problem!” Yuri opens his mouth to ask why on earth she’s bringing backup when this isn’t even her case -

“Stay hidden and safe until we get there,” James instructs, “We should be there soon.”

“Hurry,” Yuri implores, “and bring anti-emetics.”

His phone dies (again) shortly after that, his magic having given it enough juice for that one call. At least he’d made it count. He can’t sit pretty like a damsel and wait for his team to arrive when the longer he hides the more time he’s given them to take Otabek and book it.

At least he knows they won’t kill him. Otabek is far too precious to them as their patient zero.

He puts his Tags around his neck, the weight settling against his chest and he sighs. With his connection to the aether improved now he’s got them back, he’s able to summon a weapon. He keeps the handgun he’s given pointed at the floor while he creeps out of the office and starts making his way back up the empty hallway.

There’s no signs or plaques to tell him where he’s fucking going, just a lot of plain doors and grey walls. He can hear the faint hum of the air conditioning, but the facility is otherwise completely silent. There are no guards or security of any kind as he makes his way further in, keeping his ears peeled for heavy footsteps or the click of automatic artillery.

At the end of the corridor he pauses and listens.

_Which way?_ he wonders.

Both left and right look fucking identical and he can’t hear anything that would indicate one hallway is more suspicious than the other.

_Fuck it. _

Left it is.

Halfway down he stops and takes a deep inhale in. The sterile smell has changed, and he’s reminded of the HHN’s London clinic. He tries to follow his nose, wishing like hell that Ambrose and James were already here with their inhuman senses to do it for him.

The ritual space – when he finally finds it – is the biggest room he’s come across so far. It looks similar to a surgical theater – a bed in the middle of the room draped with a sterile sheet with another one of those silver trays beside it. There’s a cardiac monitor, several large overhead lamps mounted to the ceiling, and a healing circle carved into the floor to complete how authentic it looks.

His stomach turns when he gets a closer look at said circle. The pattern is familiar and follows what he’s seen in textbooks: three concentric circles with the center just wide enough to encompass the patient and keep them the focus of the spell, while the middle ring acts as a ‘safety space’ for the provider and their assistants to stand during the procedure and remain unaffected by the magic. The runes in the outer ring are immediately recognizable by the way they make him recoil. The very core of his magical being cringing away from the corruption in the Chthonian markings.

He reaches shakily for his phone, preparing to give it enough juice to snap a photo…and hesitates. If they made Otabek into a demonic chimera of some sort, HUNTER will get involved and Otabek’s life will become exceedingly more difficult. The battle for his right to live would be exhausting…

Yuri lets his phone drop back into his pocket –

“Urk!”

“I found you,” Ashlyn’s mercenary sang into his ear, low and gleefully sadistic while his forearm slowly crushes Yuri’s airway. Black creeps in at the edges of his vision as he starts losing the fight for oxygen. His magic rises aimlessly to the surface against the threat and Yuri is too busy trying to get air through his restricted airway to stop it. His tongue buzzes with the static and the arm against his throat jostles with the initial hard shock. He breaks the hold and goes scrambling away, gasping for air as he half-collapses onto the gurney.

“You fucking _bitch!_”

Pain blooms across his cheek and he sees stars. The next hit brings his headache screaming to the forefront with a vengeance, putting stabbing pressure behind his eyes and he chokes back bile. He tries to stand but another punch sends him to the floor, followed by a kick.

He feels his weight skid across the room and pain spreads across his back as he slams into a cabinet, the equipment inside rattling and he retches, bile burning a chemical trail up his esophagus and out.

“I think I understand what junkies are all about now,” the mercenary says, his delighted laughter like a knife to Yuri’s hurting brain, “if this is what getting high feels like, man, I wouldn’t want to lose this feeling either.”

He grits his teeth as his hair is pulled taut at the roots, his scalp screaming as he’s lifted by his hair and then sent back to the floor with another punch. Another inhuman kick is driven into his ribs before he can curl up to protect his middle, and his breath escapes him in a wheeze. _Please_, his mouth forms the syllable but there’s no air to give it sound. The ache that spreads across his torso matches the screaming pressure in his head, sharpening with every gasping breath –

“Stop! Stop it now!”

“Oh, _there_ you are doc!”

“I gave you explicit instructions not to harm him, Eric,” Siegfried is saying, his voice sharp and authoritarian, “Now look what you’ve done.”

“You also said I could have a reward,” Siegfried’s failed experiment replied, “Consider this to be it.”

“Absolutely _not_.”

Yuri cracks his eyes open – one of them is already swelling shut – and shuts them again when the light makes the pain even worse. All the noise and shouting isn’t helping at all either, and he has to concentrate really hard past the fog of horrible to process what he’s hearing.

“You cannot have him, Eric,” Siegfried is explaining calmly to his pet sadist, “He’ll be quite valuable in another project of mine. You’ve already damaged him enough to set me back several weeks.”

“You can find another like him,” Eric snarled, “I want my fucking pound of flesh. This bitch-“ Yuri feels a hard dig at his (probably broken) ribs, “deserves what’s coming to him.”

Siegfried sighs and Yuri chances opening his eyes again when he hears the clatter of equipment being knocked over.

_It’s Otabek_, he realizes. Otabek had thrown that guy halfway across the room and he’s standing perfectly still and calm, waiting for his next orders. Yuri blinks and tries to take a deep breath in through his nose – ow ow _ow_. Shallow breaths from now on. That hurts way too fucking much –

“I don’t want to have to put you down,” Siegfried said, “but if you continue to act like a rabid dog and keep getting in my way, I will.”

Eric rights himself with a snarl and comes at Siegfried with killing intent written on every inch of his face. Otabek intercedes, his stony expression and that red glow behind his pupils sends horrified chills down Yuri’s spine.

The figure skater has never brawled before and it’s obvious, but he manages to hold his own due to the body modifications and the mercenary making rookie mistakes in his rage.

Otabek dodges a sloppily thrown punch and counters with a right hook. Yuri cringes when he hears a dull crack and Eric spits a bloodied loogie.

“Impressive for an ice fairy,” the sadist says, “You took a tooth.” Otabek doesn’t react when Eric pulls his lip back to show off the new gap in his smile.

“Are you finished, yet?” Siegfried says, scribbling a few notes on what looks like a pad of paper –

_Where the fuck did he get the notepad? _

“Not even close,” Eric bares his teeth in a gruesome grin, “Once I’ve finished putting your fairy down, I’m coming for that scrawny neck.”

“Very well,” Siegfried sighed, “I don’t want any complaints if he kills you.”

Yuri realizes with a dawning horror that that is exactly what the freak _wants_. This is all just part of the experiment to him. A way to test run Otabek’s new capabilities.

And if the skater comes back to himself and realizes what he’s done, he’ll never be the same. Self-defense or not, puppet-master or not, Otabek was never made for violence. Yuri tries to focus around how every inch of him really fucking hurts while he reaches for his strength.

His blood pounds in his ears as he reaches above him for something to hold onto for support while he gets his legs underneath him.

“Fuck,” he cursed, pausing for a moment when even that much movement made his stomach revolt. He leans heavily on the cabinet, the handle biting into his palm while he waits for the nausea to subside. He sees Otabek land the K.O. Blood spatters across the figure skater’s face and Eric’s body hits the ground.

“Excellent,” Siegfried announces, tucking the notepad away and clicking his pen as he picks his way across the room to nudge 2.0 with his foot, “Still breathing I see. Ah, well. I’m sure I could find more use for you.”

As much as Yuri would like to see the sadist freak put down for good, Yuri’s relieved that Otabek didn’t kill him. He’s been scarred enough without these people turning him into a killer.

“You seem to need assistance, Agent Plisetsky,” Siegfried said, stepping over 2.0 to extend a hand, which Yuri ignores in favor of clinging to the medical cabinet because if he moves, he’s going to fucking vomit again. He can already feel his saliva thickening and pooling in his mouth – “Look at you,” Siegfried clicked his tongue, giving Yuri a once-over, “I hope he didn’t do too much damage. I’d like you in one piece for my upcoming project-”

Yuri couldn’t force the nausea down if he wanted to, retching violently onto the floor and the acidic smell clashes horribly with the scent of Dark magic and antiseptic lingering in the room.

“Lovely,” Siegfried deadpanned, standing at the edge of the splash zone with his nose wrinkled in disgust.

Yuri spits to get the taste of bile out of his mouth, his saliva thick and heavy in his mouth.

“I’ll have Karen take a look at you and you’ll be right as rain. Apparently she used to be a nurse-“

“Her name’s not Karen,” Yuri said slowly.

“And your speech is slurring,” Siegfried sighed, “Oh dear. Otabek, come over here and help Agent Plisetsky, will you?”

Otabek wordlessly crosses the room to obey, standing on the other side of the puddle of vomit and reaching out.

“Wha-?” Otabek lifts him by his armpits over the puddle, and Yuri is reminded of all the times he had to levitate Otabek over an obstacle or up the stairs when the skater’s ankle had been shot. “Guess the tables are turned, huh?” Yuri chuckled and then grimaced because laughing hurt, while clinging to Otabek for dear life. Trying to walk on his own is…more difficult than it should be. His legs don’t want to cooperate, and he ends up leaning on the figure skater for support.

“Such a mess,” Siegfried is saying, “Karen won’t be happy about this. We spent so much of the budget moving phase two up-“

Yuri looks up at Otabek’s inscrutable face, to that creepy red glow behind his pupils.

_I know you’re in there_.

As soon as he thinks it, a flicker crosses that stony expression. Otabek’s gaze drifts downwards and Yuri frowns, wondering just what the fuck Otabek is looking at –

He feels a tug on the ball-chain around his neck and Otabek’s got a hand on his Tags.

“Yuri?” Otabek says.

In his peripherals, Yuri sees Siegfried go stiff as a board and slowly turn to look at them.

“Yuri is this real?” Otabek looks confused.

“Yeah, ‘Bek,” Yuri answered, “'s real. You’re not dreaming.”

“You’re not supposed to be _awake_,” Siegfried says, making a frustrated sound, “I spent _months_ perfecting the technique-“

“I know you,” Otabek interrupts blandly, recognition crossing his face.

“Of course, you know me,” Siegfried snapped impatiently, “I _made_ you.”

“Well, my mother will be very disappointed to hear that,” Otabek muttered and Yuri snorts.

“Fuck, don’t make me laugh,” Yuri wheezed, “Fuckin’ hurts.”

“Sorry,” Otabek apologized, his brow creasing with concern, “If I let you go will you be able to stand?”

“Nah but let me go anyway. I need to lie down,” Yuri awkwardly pats Otabek, “Oh, do me a favor?” his entire body protests as he conjures a set of Suppression cuffs, marks of overuse blooming rosy red down his bare arms. Otabek takes them and gently lowers Yuri to the floor to sit.

“Stay put,” Otabek tells him.

“Fuck off,” Yuri says. He sees the red flicker across Otabek’s pupils for barely a second and the figure skater straightens to fix Siegfried with a look that Yuri hopes never to see directed at him.

“That’s not going to work a second time,” Otabek tells him.

“It should,” Siegfried snapped, expression cagey as he backs towards the door, “And it will. Obedience is hardwired into you.” he gestures to the faded Han-lim on Otabek’s skin though there’s doubt in his voice and fear on his face, “I made absolutely sure of it.”

“Bet,” Otabek snorted and locked him in the cuffs.

Yuri sees the flash as they activate and – fuck his head really fucking hurts. Shutting his eyes seems to help with the pain…just a bit. It’s easier to keep them closed and focus on his breathing so he avoids aggravating the ache in his chest.

“Yuri?” he re-opens them when Otabek touches his shoulder, “You have to stay awake, okay?”

“’M awake,” Yuri said, “Pr’mise.”

His head feels like it weighs a fucking hundred pounds and he could kill for a shower and a nap right now.

“Help is coming right?” Otabek asked, “Not to discredit your abilities, but I’m sure even you can’t do magic like this.”

“’Brose is coming,” Yuri agreed, and frowns past Otabek when he sees Siegfried waiting sullenly with them, his wrists locked in the Suppression cuffs, “Why hasn’t he run?”

“Where do you suggest I go, Agent?” Siegfried snaps, “Even if I had my magic, I can’t make Portals. And all my staff either evacuated when you set off the fire alarm or were incapacitated. There’s no one to drive me should I reach the car.”

“You…don’t know how to drive?” Otabek turns an incredulous look on the scientist.

“Don’t judge me,” Siegfried says.

“It’s a life skill!” Otabek said, “It’s literally an important part of being an adult!”

“I don’t have to if I don’t want to,” Siegfried argued imperiously.

He wants to laugh but resists because he knows it’ll hurt too much. Maybe they won’t mind too much if he takes a nap instead? Just a short kip, right there on the floor. He presses his cheek into a cool clean bit of tile and the chill seeps through his scrubs.

“Yuri, you can’t fall asleep,” there’s real urgency in Otabek’s voice now, “You have to stay with me, okay?”

“’M righ’ here,” Yuri mumbles, slumping in Otabek’s hold as the skater physically sits him up, “’M not leavin’.”

The air splits and a Portal yawns wide open at the entrance to the room. He blinks at the members of his Unit, plus Jade and her entourage of Hunters dressed in combat black. His mentor standing next to the three biggest men Yuri’s ever met – Simon, Duke, and Marod – looks especially short, but no less intimidating as she glares into the room with her mismatched eyes.

Danny drops to her knees in front of him and gathers him in a tight hug, “Oh my gods. Oh, my gods.”

“Hurts,” Yuri wheezes, his chest absolutely screaming, and it becomes even harder to breathe. Danny lets him go like she burned him, her tear-streaked face white with horror.

“Gods, look at you,” Danny croaked.

“I told you to stay put,” James lamented, “What the hell happened?”

“Had to find ‘Bek,” Yuri explained, and gestured weakly to 2.0 still laid out cold on the floor, “Ran into trouble.”

“Best get you to a hospital,” Ambrose said, “Come on, up you get.”

They help him gingerly to his feet, Otabek hovering with his hands splayed out like he’s ready to catch him should Yuri go toppling over.

He shuts his eyes against the flare of the fluorescent lights and slows his breathing so he doesn’t vomit all over Ambrose -

“Yuri?” he blinks them open at the nurse who’d clearly been trying to get his attention for awhile now, “Can you tell me what month it is?”

“Sept’mber,” Yuri answered.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hos’pil?”

“Close enough,” the nurse sighed, “I’ll wheel him back.”

He shuts his eyes against the brighter glare of the lights past the double doors, and the nurse requires help getting him out of the wheelchair and into the bed because his legs still don’t want to work properly. It’s not the most comfortable bed he’s ever been in, but it’s heaven after sleeping on the floor for however many days, and he can finally lay his head down and close his eyes . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give thanks every day to the Wi-Fi gods for giving me high speed internet. 
> 
> To the people that wished me luck: thank you, I'm definitely gonna need it. Moving in general sucks absolute balls. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated! <3


	20. I'd Look It Up, But I Forgot

_October 2024; North American Branch Headquarters MedWard – Ottawa_

Otabek’s heart is in his throat while he watches one of the staff take a pair of shears to Yuri’s stained top and starts sticking electrodes to his chest. The angry red-purple splotches that spread across his fair skin like ink is visible even from all the way over here. The monitor lights up with his vital signs while another member of the staff sticks an IV into the crook of Yuri’s elbow.

It’s like watching a train wreck – he can’t look away even though his stomach churns and several more staff swarm into the room. The nurse is taking vitals and trying to get Yuri to respond but he won’t open his eyes. Ambrose guides him out of the room with a hand on his arm, murmuring, “Come on. Best get out of their way, yeah?”

Otabek jumps when his shoulder is tapped, and he turns to see the triage nurse in his royal blue scrubs.

“Oop, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I think he’d want these kept with you?” the nurse holds up their closed fist and lets Yuri’s Tags drop into Otabek’s cupped palms.

“I…thank you,” Otabek murmured.

“He’s going to be okay,” the nurse assured them, “He’s in good hands.”

Inside the room, Yuri is lifted by two nurses so a board can be shoved behind his back for x-rays. As loathe as he is to leave, he lets Ambrose guide him back out to the lobby where they can wait without getting in the way of the staff.

As soon as they’re sequestered in the quietest corner they can find, Ambrose takes out his phone and places a phone call. His fingers twitch impatiently at his side before he hands up with a frustrated sound.

“Are you trying to reach his family?” Otabek asked.

“Yuri doesn’t have any next of kin,” Ambrose said, “but he’s still got other friends who’d want to know his status.” There’s a short pause, someone on the other end clearly picking up, “Victor, I’m sorry, I know it’s late there but Yuri’s critically injured.” Ambrose glances at the doors leading into the department, “Right now we’re just waiting to hear from the physician.”

Otabek’s not sure how it works in a magical hospital, but he’s sure it’s a waiting game from now on. He opens his curled fingers to look at the name embossed on the gunmetal. He’s sure the string of numbers underneath Yuri’s name is a registration reference of some sort so they can identify him out in the field. On the back are two letters sandwiching a number. He closes his fist tight over the Tags, the gunmetal biting into his skin the same way it did when the illusion finally broke.

Ambrose collapses into the chair next to his with a tired sound, scrubbing his fingers through his dark hair.

“So, now we wait,” Otabek said.

“And now we wait,” Ambrose agreed.

Ten minutes go by and Ambrose stands up from his chair, flagging down the three hastily dressed people that just walked in.

Wait…they’re familiar somehow.

They look a little different without their formal dress uniforms, but these are definitely the same people that were in the graduation photo – sans the Asian man with glasses. The tallest of the three exudes an aura of chilly untouchability as he listens to Ambrose’s hushed explanation with an austere expression.

“We’re meant to operate in pairs,” he says coldly, “Why didn’t one of you go with him?”

“You think we _wanted_ to let him go sticking his neck out by himself? Chief Clacher was in on it,” Ambrose replied, bristling, “even went so far as to close the case and suspend Yuri. One of us disappearing to help Yuri would’ve endangered the investigation and the witness.”

“He failed to mention _that_ little tidbit,” the redhead says.

“Witness?” asked the leader. Ambrose nods to Otabek who immediately feels like what a deer caught in headlights must feel when all three Exorcists look straight at him.

“Oh!” the redhead blurted, startling the other two, “_You’re_ Mr. Champion! Aren’t you?”

“I prefer Otabek,” he tells her, terror taking a backseat to exasperation. He’s never going to escape that stupid nickname, is he?

“Do you, now?” she says, her voice taking on a suggestive undertone and he feels himself flush.

“Mila,” her other teammate chides, “now is not the time.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood, Gosha,” she sighs, “But seriously, who knew our little intern actually had good taste?”

His ears must be bright red; he can feel himself roasting alive with embarrassment when he realizes the look on her face is _approval_ and he bows his head to try and hide. The silver-haired Exorcist is giving him a searching look when he looks back up, blue eyes narrowed.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Er, Otabek. Otabek Altin?”

“Victor Nikiforov, a pleasure. Did you know there’s blood on your face?” Otabek immediately touches his cheek and he can feel where the blood spatter has dried down into an itchy crust on his skin. He feels his stomach churn violently as he remembers the fight that put it there. Victor looks at Ambrose, “Do you know if they’re allowing visitors?”

“Not until they get him stabilized,” Ambrose said, “I don’t know how long that’ll take but…he was in really bad shape.”

“Keep me updated,” Victor said, “I’ll come back as soon as he’s allowed visitors.”

“Of course,” Ambrose said, and sinks into the chair next to Otabek when Victor and his team are gone.

It’s hours and hours of just…waiting; partially dozing off only to jolt awake with his heart pounding because he can’t be entirely sure that it’s safe to sleep anymore. Snippets of memories and old nightmares conglomerate and haunt him even when he’s staring forlornly into the empty can of coffee from the vending machine – asleep with his eyes wide open.

The lobby is empty and dead silent, the first tentative rays of dawn peeking through the windows when Ambrose inquires at the front desk if he could speak to someone regarding Yuri’s status.

“Hey.” He startles, blinking up at Ambrose who looks just as exhausted as Otabek feels, “Come on. They’ve moved him.”

“Where’d they take him?” Otabek yawns.

“Trauma OR,” Ambrose said, “The bleeding in his brain and lungs couldn’t be stabilized with magic alone. He’s in surgery now.”

Otabek feels oddly numb as he follows Ambrose through another set of doors into a separate department. The waiting room there is much smaller and quieter, and he sinks heavily into a chair. When he looks at his unmarred hands – knuckles that should be split, and fingers that should be bruised – he feels something inside him twist into horrified knots. It doesn’t seem fair that he got out of there with barely a scratch and Yuri ends up in surgery.

_Hey, uh, God? I know our relationship hasn’t been the best for the past few years, but could you do me this one favor?_ he prays, _Let Yuri live? I know I’ve had it good for a long long time. I’ll never ask for anything again, just please let him live…_

He balances precariously between sleep and wakefulness, more hours slipping by like sand through a sieve – “Plisetsky?” Next to him, Ambrose stands and the surgeon pads over, her white coat thrown on over blue surgical scrubs and hair still in a sterile bonnet.

“I’m Dr. Winter. Are you the family?” she said.

“Closest thing he’s got,” Ambrose said, “I’m his field partner.”

“And you are?” the surgeon looks at him.

“Significant other,” Ambrose answers for him and it takes a few moments for Otabek’s exhausted brain to process what Ambrose has just done.

Oh _no_.

The surgeon appears to think that’s perfectly serviceable, “The procedure went well. He’s still on the ventilator and he’ll be in the ICU until he’s well enough to extubate, so no visitors for a while yet, I’m afraid. But I expect he’ll make the turn around.”

“Thank the gods,” Ambrose croaks, “Thank you so much.”

“Of course. And thank you.”

Ambrose fires off a quick text and he turns to look at Otabek.

“Why’d you tell her that?” Otabek mumbles, his face still burning with embarrassment, “We’re not- I’m not-”

“It was easier,” Ambrose shrugged a shoulder, “We both need a shower. You especially. You’ve still got blood on your face.”

He’s loathe to leave, as much as being in this place is starting to make his skin crawl, but he’s also tired of being covered in blood.

“We’ll be back once he’s allowed visitors, yeah?” Ambrose pats him on the shoulder, steering him towards the exit, “It’ll be fine.”

He directs him to stand on top of a complicated looking circle drawn into the floor just beyond the waiting room, “Think of my house. We’ll be there in a blink.”

The light swells around them until the hospital is completely obscured from view, and when it fades, they’re standing in the foyer of the Bloodworth household. Sunshine pours in through the windows and he can hear the low drone of the TV.

“Rosey? Is that you?” Zhenya calls from the kitchen. She’s still in her pajamas, even though it’s clearly late afternoon, and her bone white hair is scooped up into a sleep-tousled knot atop her head, “Is Yuri alright-?” her eyes go wide when she sees Otabek standing in her entryway, “Is that blood?”

“Don’t worry it’s not mine,” he blurts, then pauses at how absolutely horrible that sentence was.

“Yuri’s out of surgery,” Ambrose tells her, “Doctor said he’ll be fine.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Zhenya sagged with relief, “I was starting to fear the worst had happened when you didn’t come home straight away.” She frowns at Otabek, “Are you sure you’re alright, luv? You look awful.”

“Just tired,” Otabek tries to reassure her with a smile but her frown deepens, and she steps forward to envelop him in a hug. His eyes burn with unshed tears and he swallows hard against the inexplicable lump in his throat. He can’t stop the first tear or the third as they slide down his cheeks, and then he’s openly weeping in the entryway. She offers him a handkerchief, “Dab. Don’t rub. There we go. Rosey will find you some clothes and I’ll make lunch, yeah?”

“Thanks,” he croaked.

He sees himself to the guest room and shuts himself into the attached bathroom. He groans at his harried reflection, his face burning with mortification at the fact that he just fucking cried on Zhenya while her husband watched. His soiled clothing is left on the floor in a dismal bloodstained heap and he turns the shower to scalding, standing under the water until his skin goes numb to the heat, then he remembers he should probably be using soap.

He dries off and puts on the t-shirt and track pants left out for him on the bed. He wants so badly to crawl beneath the covers, but the thought of going to sleep and waking up somewhere else terrifies him. What if this time they make him hurt someone else? Sure, that other guy had been a total asshole who’d put Yuri in the hospital, but that doesn’t mean the next person will be.

Hell, what if he never manages to wake up at all?

Otabek forces himself to go downstairs and eat, even though his insides have twisted themselves back up into knots. Zhenya and Ambrose are in the kitchen, their hushed voices covered by the commentary playing out on the television and Otabek does his best to focus instead on the satire provided by the salty BBC anchor.

By the time he finishes eating, his eyelids don’t want to stay up and he nearly dozes off at the table.

“You know,” Ambrose says, startling him, “we have a guest room for a reason.” he doesn’t seem all that bothered by Otabek’s earlier meltdown, and it occurs to Otabek that he’s probably seen witnesses and victims ugly cry all the time.

“I know,” Otabek mumbled, “I just…”

“I’ll wake you if anything changes,” Ambrose promises, “And the house is protected. You’re safe here.”

He doesn’t know how to explain that he doesn’t feel safe when he’s probably the one who’s a danger to them now, but Ambrose is giving him that look that means there’s no room for argument and Otabek trudges off to the guest room and crawls into bed.

He fights with sleep for a little while longer and loses the battle.

Thankfully he’s too wiped to dream and when he wakes up, he’s relieved to find that he’s still in the guest bedroom. He splashes his face with water and half-stumbles downstairs, finding Danny and James sitting at the table nursing cups of tea.

“Oh, hey,” Danny’s tired face brightens a bit, “how’re you doing?”

“I’m okay,” Otabek shrugged, “Um, what did I miss?”

“Not much,” James answered, “Majority of the HHN’s been arrested, including its leaders. Arraignment should be happening,” he glanced at his watch, “any minute now.”

“With HUNTER involved, the magistrate won’t offer bail,” Danny assured him, patting his arm, “They’ll be going away for a long long time.”

“But…can’t the government make you release them?” Otabek frowned. He gets confused looks from all three of them.

“The IMC can’t make us do anything,” Ambrose says slowly, “Not really. Why?”

Fuck, that’s right. Yuri didn’t exactly get a chance to tell them about the conspiracy and Otabek can’t just drop the subject now that he’s opened his fat mouth.

“Yuri told me the IMC sanctioned the project.”

The three Exorcists stare at him, the silence from them all thick and awkward until James lets out a nervous chuckle.

“That’s a pretty serious accusation, Otabek,” he says.

“Fuck, it makes too much sense,” Danny whispered hoarsely, her wan complexion starting to turn a little grey.

“Explain it to me then, Danny,” James said, “A conspiracy like this would _ruin_ us. The entirety of magic-kind would lose faith in their government and it would be chaos.”

“The HHN was a global conglomerate. They were too big to keep their actions entirely clandestine,” Danny’s voice sharpened, “Do you honestly think they would’ve been able to skate under the IMC’s radar with their access to _our_ Intelligence network? Absolutely not. Their lead egghead used to run R&D, James. Nobody leaves a cushy job as a Department Head without proper incentive.”

Otabek can see that he’s opened an entire can of worms, and he almost turns around and goes straight back to bed. Instead, he makes eye-contact with Ambrose who mouths ‘Tea?’ and then not-so-subtly ushers him into the kitchen.

“Do you believe me?” Otabek asked quietly.

“I believe Yuri wouldn’t say something like that to you unless he had evidence,” Ambrose said seriously, filling the electric kettle and setting it on its base, “And until he wakes up, we can’t get the full story.”

“What will happen to that man? And his boss?” Otabek said.

“They’ll be detained for now,” Ambrose replied, “HUNTER’s protocol for detainees is different than the standard police and it guarantees tighter security. The IMC can’t attempt to cover their arse and try to get their people released without jumping through a hundred different hoops, and they’ll be risking blowing this whole thing wide open if they do.”

“Rock and a hard place,” Otabek mumbled.

“Exactly,” Ambrose said, “Either way, we’re in for a long long fight.”

“Unless?” Otabek suggests.

“Unless Yuri wakes up and what he has turns out to be concrete,” Ambrose sighed.

“’Until’,” Otabek corrects, “He’s too stubborn to die.”

Ambrose snorted a laugh, “Gods, the accuracy of that statement almost hurts.”

The kettle dings, and Ambrose pulls it off the base to pour the hot water into a mug for him, “Milk? Sugar?”

“Fuck it. Why not?” Otabek sighed.

James and Danny are still locked in furious debate when they leave the kitchen and Ambrose heaves a tired sigh.

“Listen to yourself,” James said, “don’t you know what you sound like?”

“No, _you_ listen to _yourself_,” Danny retorted, “Yuri’s not the type to make baseless accusations. Do you honestly think he ended up in the hospital for nothing? Do you?”

“Of course, I don’t,” James deflated, “I just…Danny, there’s more at stake now if what he says is true. I just…”

“Nobody wants to believe that their leaders would do something so terrible,” Ambrose interjected, “But, The Coalition isn’t perfect. Never has been. _You_ know that. I especially know that.”

Otabek sips quietly at his tea and keeps his mouth shut.

“And I think we can _all_ agree,” Ambrose continued, “that we want to know what _the fuck_ is going on. Now, can we _please_ go get some breakfast?”

**~ N ~**

It’s another two days before Yuri is transferred out of the ICU and they make the trip back to Ottawa to go see him. He’s asleep when they walk in, nestled in a cushier bed than they had him in down in the emergency department. There’s a screen set into the wall above the head of Yuri’s bed that displays his vitals and the TV mounted on the opposite wall is turned off. The bruising on Yuri’s face is mostly gone. They’ve shaved a large patch of his hair and the staples they used to close the incision they made in his scalp are still there. Otabek can’t imagine Yuri will be too happy about the change in his look, however temporary it is.

It’s so unbelievably strange to see him so still and quiet when Yuri’s always been so fiery and alive. He sinks onto the little couch (though calling it a couch is a bit of a stretch when it’s not that comfortable) at the bedside.

“Strange isn’t it?” Danny murmured aside to him. He glances at her and she nods to the sleeping Warlock, “I kind of miss his shouting.”

“Me too,” Otabek admitted. Her eyes are suspiciously glassy, and he hands her the box of tissues. She dabs at her eyes and sniffles.

“What are you crying for now?” James whispered, fond and exasperated.

“I don’t know,” Danny sniffled, “I just hate seeing him like this, I guess.”

Ambrose finds the TV remote and turns it on, flipping through the channels and finally settling on a show about big cats. Yuri doesn’t rouse once even when the nurse stops in periodically to check on the bags of fluid and inspect the staples. 

Jade stops by, her complexion tinged with grey from exhaustion and the circles under her eyes are close to swallowing her whole face.

“How is he?” she asked quietly.

“Sleeping,” James said, looking up from his knitting.

“He hasn’t woken up yet,” Ambrose added.

“Understandable,” Jade sighed, “To be honest, I wasn’t all that hopeful when I heard the diagnosis.” 

She glances at the monitor where the vitals are displayed, and she seems to relax a little before reaching out and giving Yuri’s wrist a little squeeze.

“The others have been asking if they can come by,” Jade continued.

“Of course, they can,” Danny said cheerfully, “The more the merrier.”

“Remember, Danny, this is a hospital,” James reminded her mildly, “not a convention center.” Danny rolls her eyes at him.

“Yes, _dad_.” 

“I could go for a coffee,” Ambrose grunts, standing and stretching, “Anybody?”

There’s a chorus of pleases and Otabek offers to tag along to help Ambrose carry it all, needing to stretch his legs. They give their order at the counter and they move off to the side to wait.

“I’ll pay you back,” Otabek promises.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ambrose waves him off, “it’s fine.”

He looks just as tired as the rest of them but there’s an air of stillness around him, compared to the frenetic atmosphere surrounding Danny or the tightly-wound concern that makes James stiff as a board, and Otabek feels himself relax a little.

“How do you manage to stay so calm?” Otabek asked him. Ambrose blinked at him.

“I’m calm?”

“Well, yeah,” Otabek said, “I figured that’s why you and Yuri are good partners. He screams a lot and you’re…kind of the opposite.” Ambrose snickers.

“I’m just good at compartmentalizing, I guess,” Ambrose shrugged, “Lots and lots of practice.”

“Danny and I were talking about how weird the quiet is,” Otabek mentioned, “I guess we better get used to it now. Heaven knows he’ll be screaming when he sees the haircut the surgeon gave him.” he can already see the look of absolute rage on Yuri’s face when he sees what’s been done to his painstakingly maintained tresses and a chuckle escapes before he can stop it. He glances at Ambrose, but the Exorcist isn’t laughing with him, instead giving him a searching look. Otabek feels his mirth shrivel and die, wondering if it’s too soon or....

His latte comes out first and Otabek gratefully steps up to the drink counter to take it, sipping quietly at the hot caffeinated goodness.

“You like him,” Ambrose said bluntly, and coffee nearly comes out of Otabek’s nose. It’s too late to try and play it cool when his eyes are watering and his sinuses are on fire.

“I, what?” Otabek managed to wheeze. Ambrose calmly secures each drink in the carrier given to him by the staff, grabbing straws and napkins like they were just talking about the weather.

“You like him,” Ambrose repeated.

“I don’t dislike him,” Otabek said slowly, earning himself an eyeroll.

“Give me a break, Altin,” Ambrose said, clearly losing his patience just a little bit, “I can _smell_ your attraction to my prickly partner.”

Oh.

Well…that’s just…fine.

(It’s not fine.)

(Abort mission! Abort!)

“Uh….” Otabek says. You know, like any intelligent twenty-something. Internally, he’s cursing Yuri for not telling him exactly what Ambrose was. He remembers vaguely asking and getting a non-answer in return.

Okay, so yeah, he wasn’t fucking blind. Objectively speaking, Yuri is universally gorgeous: tall, fit, and blonde. Otabek would be hard-pressed to find any man who could rock long hair like that without looking like a _Lord of the Rings_ knockoff. At first, he’d just been appreciative of Yuri’s looks despite the major gap between that pretty face and abrasive personality.

“I swear, being a Lycan is both a blessing and curse,” Ambrose grumbled, “Having to smell your pheromones falls strictly under the ‘curse’ category.”

“You’re a werewolf?” Otabek blurted. (He’s seen one of the Underworld movies, he knows ‘Lycan’ is just a fancy word for werewolf.)

“Half,” Ambrose replied, tearing the wrapper off his straw and tossing it in the recycling, “Half werewolf, half demon. Hence why I am a Lycan.”

Well. It explains the teeth. And the eyes.

He’d thought the Agency – or at least magickind in general – completely scorned demonkind, but Ambrose is evidence to the contrary.

“Um, is James like you too or…?”

“Ha! No, he’s a vampire,” Ambrose said, then paused, “Why didn’t Yuri tell you any of this?”

“I, er, think he was a bit preoccupied,” Otabek said awkwardly.

“Sure,” Ambrose said flatly, “But, seriously, you’re not subtle.”

“But, seriously,” Otabek parrots, “We’re just friends.”

“That’s great. Hades knows he needs more friends outside of work,” Ambrose said, “but you still Like him. And that’s ‘like’ with a capital ‘L’.”

Otabek has no clue when his attraction to Yuri stopped being purely physical. He thinks of the Warlock making dinner in his tiny-ass kitchen, eating all of his fruit, and not leaving a single dirty dish behind despite his constant bitching. He thinks of the first time he saw Yuri’s eyes glow like the devil, lit from within by his magic. His stomach drops to his ankles because he can’t really pinpoint a single moment, even after nearly four weeks of living in close proximity to one another.

Shit.

Ambrose is right.

He Likes him.

Capital ‘L’ and all.

“I’m sure you know by now he’s a bit of a shit,” Ambrose continued, interrupting Otabek’s epiphany, “and he only gets away with it because he’s too fucking pretty for his own good.”

Otabek huffs a laugh in agreement and steps into the elevator.

“This isn’t a shovel talk,” Ambrose finally said, “Not really. I’m sure you know if you hurt him, Yuri will kill you himself.”

“I don’t…” Otabek sighed, “I’m happy being friends. Besides, I don’t think he’d be interested, given the way his last relationship ended.”

Ambrose’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline, “He told you about Zain?”

“Uh…yeah?”

“Wow,” Ambrose murmured, “Getting him to talk about that is like pulling teeth.”

“Maybe, he just doesn’t talk about it with you?” Otabek suggested despite the voice of reason telling him to shut his mouth before he inserts his foot, “Because…you know…Zain’s your brother?” And in it goes. Toes, heel, and all.

“I don’t agree with what Zain did,” Ambrose said, his expression darkening, “and I never will. Brother or not, his dragging Yuri into his issues was selfish and the damage he caused was inexcusable.”

“I didn’t mean to imply-,” Otabek starts.

“I know,” Ambrose interrupted, “It’s…sorry. Guess it’s still a bit touchy.”

The silence between them is thick after that and Otabek isn’t sure how to fix whatever it is. He doesn’t get a chance to, because Danny and James are waiting outside Yuri’s room looking particularly anxious. They have to get back to London immediately and Otabek hangs back, letting them get on with their Exorcist thing instead of having to worry about accommodating him.

Jade is at bedside and takes the coffee Otabek offers with murmured thanks.

“Oh, that reminds me,” she reaches into her pocket and pulls out his phone, “Might want to check in with your family before they start to worry.”

“Thank you.” he feels a little guilty that he hadn’t thought of them at all in the past few days. When he powers on his phone and it automatically connects to the Wi-Fi, the notifications start rolling in. Missed texts and calls, emails from his PR manager…each one sits on his chest and he doesn’t even know where to start.

Not to mention what the hell’s gonna happen when he goes back to Toronto and his ankle is magically (er, no pun intended) healed.

“What is it _now?_” Jade sighed. 

“It’s just…I don’t-“

“Sit.”

She takes a long drink of her coffee and the silence is long enough that it starts to border on awkward.

“You know, when stuff like this happens we always reevaluate what’s most important,” she finally says, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been here and yet, each and every single time I’m always like, ‘What should I be doing right now?’” she scratches at her cheek, just below the scar that bisects her clouded left eye, “I always feel fucking guilty for thinking about all the shit I _should_ be doing, but I can never bring myself to walk away.”

“I like him,” Otabek blurted. Jade turns slowly to look at him.

“Yeah,” she said, “I know. So?”

“And I still feel human,” he tells her, “even though my ankle being all better kind of freaks me out. I’m not complaining! It’s just…weird.”

“Mmhm.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Jade shrugged a shoulder, “not right now, at least. But, eventually, you’ll have to think about what you want.”

“Um…”

“I mean in general,” Jade rolled her eyes, “but, like I said, that shit can wait. For now, we can just watch Cupcake Wars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll leave tomorrow's problems to tomorrow's me." - Saitama, One Punch Man
> 
> Wise words from an OP character. 
> 
> Also, does Cupcake Wars even air in Canada? 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated <3


	21. Why is Being Alive So Expensive?

_October 2024; North American Branch Headquarters MedWard – Ottawa_

The jingle is repetitive and annoying, and he doesn’t know why it’s chosen to invade his dreams. He supposes he’s dreamt of a lot worse, but it is very loud. Loud enough that it follows him into the waking world when he cracks open an eye.

“Will someone turn that fucking thing off?” he croaks. The culprit – the IV infusion machine – makes the same cheerful noise as if to mock him. Otabek appears next to him, picking up the remote and pressing the big red button to call the nurse.

“Welcome back,” Otabek says, and he looks like he means it. Yuri can see glimpses of late afternoon sunshine peeking through the blinds past the figure skater’s bulk. 

“How long was I out?” Yuri asked.

“About five days now,” Otabek said.

“Fuck,” Yuri groaned. His body felt strange – like most of it had fallen asleep – and when he moves to sit up, he’s assaulted by that weird pins and needles sensation in all four of his extremities. He grits his teeth and grips the bed rails to hold himself up while he catches his breath.

“Hey, take it easy,” Otabek holds out his hands in the universal sign for ‘whoa nelly’, “You just had major surgery.”

“I what?” Yuri frowned. He doesn’t _feel_ like he had major surgery. He’s fucking exhausted even though he’s apparently been in a coma for the better part of a week.

“You were in rough shape. Six broken ribs, and four of them punctured your lungs,” Otabek explains, “You also had a brain bleed, so…”

“Oh shit,” Yuri croaked, still holding on to the rails of his bed and trying to keep himself from collapsing back against the pillows.

The infusion machine lets out another cheerful noise and Yuri feels his eye twitch. In his peripherals he sees a colorful flower arrangement in a simple orange vase – he recognizes the larkspurs and pastel rhododendrons, both of them deadly – and guesses it’s probably from Jade. There’s a small pile of stuffed animals by his bedside, some of them easily bigger than a small child.

“The fuck is all this?” he asked.

“Everyone brought get well gifts,” Otabek said.

“Where the fuck am I gonna put it all?” his flat is fucking tiny. There’s no way he’ll have the storage space to keep every single one (he might make exceptions for the shark and tiger plushies, but that’s nobody’s business).

The nurse comes in and is visibly startled to see him awake, “Oh!”

“Um, the machine keeps making that noise,” Otabek points, and it lets out another rendition of that cheerful jingle as if on cue. The nurse presses a series of buttons and there’s blessed silence.

“The surgeon will be happy to hear you’re awake,” he says, tapping the monitor above his head and the cuff around his arm begins to tighten as it takes his blood pressure. The nurse copies the numbers on the monitor onto a strip of paper towel.

“Is there a way I could shower?” Yuri croaked.

“Of course. Just give me one second.”

He steps out of the room and when he comes back in, he’s got specimen tubes and a vacutainer clutched in his hands.

“Just gotta repeat some labs,” the nurse explained, gloving up and collecting the blood from the IV in Yuri’s other arm, “I’ll send this off and get you unhooked, okay?”

“Thanks.” Yuri lifts up the blankets covering his bottom half, preparing to kick them off, but pauses when he sees the tube disappearing under the hem of the hospital gown. He should’ve expected that they’d put a catheter in, and he considers it a blessing that he can’t really feel it after having it in for the better part of a week.

“Is everything okay?” Otabek asked, straightening from where he’s rearranging the pile of plushies on the floor.

“There’s a tube in my dick,” Yuri answered.

“Um…okay then,” Otabek muttered, “Uh, James put together a bag for you for when you woke up. Shampoo, conditioner, and soap. And some clean underwear.”

“Of course, he did,” Yuri sighed, “Now, I have to buy him lunch.” _And a coffee_, he adds when he sees James packed his favorite products.

The nurse has Otabek step out while he gets Yuri completely unhooked. “Have you ever heard of someone having their dick broken from a catheter?” he asked the nurse – Rick, according to his badge – and gets an amused ‘no’. It feels weird to be walking after both having the catheter removed and being bedridden for a week. Rick keeps a hand on his arm to stop him from falling over when he gingerly gets out of bed, sits him down on the bench in the shower, then shows him where to pull the string to call if he needs assistance.

In the middle of washing his hair he realizes something is terribly wrong and he nearly slips on the wet tile in his scramble to get to the mirror.

The screech that escapes him when he sees his reflection is entirely involuntary and the door is immediately wrenched open.

“What’s wrong?” Otabek asked.

“My hair!” he wailed, poking at the uneven patch of fine blonde fuzz, interrupted by neat surgical staples.

“Oh,” Otabek sighed, sagging with obvious relief, “I thought it was something serious-“

“It _is_ serious!” Yuri rounded on him, “You know how long it took me to grow it out? The tender love and care I put into this?” he points to what’s left of it with the hand not holding onto the sink for balance.

“Jade told me she’ll have a potion ready for you after the staples come out,” Otabek assured him, his eyes flick downwards for just a brief second and he averts his eyes with a cough, “You’re, um…you should rinse off.” He closes the door and Yuri scowls.

Suds are still dripping from his hair – or at least, what’s left of it – and he carefully picks his way across the wet floor to stand underneath the spray and finish washing.

He’s still pouting by the time he’s dried and dressed in a clean hospital gown. Rick hooks him back up to the monitor and puts in a clean IV, covering it with a sterile sticker before he checks on the staples.

“The night hospitalist should be making his rounds soon,” Rick says, “and we’ll see about getting you discharged soon, okay?”

“Finally,” Yuri muttered, “Thanks. Um, could I get some food?”

Rick tells him the kitchen is currently closed but he does have frozen meals: meatloaf and macaroni are his two options. The former sounds like a recipe for foodborne illness, so macaroni and cheese it is.

He glances at Otabek who’s sitting there quietly with his eyes fixed on the television screen and Yuri scowls.

“What?” Otabek asked.

“You suck,” Yuri tells him.

“All my awards say differently,” Otabek replied.

“You still suck.”

The door to the room swings wide open and he grunts when a body lands on top of his.

“Christ, Danny, take it easy,” James chides her, “he’s still in a hospital bed for gods’ sake.”

“Don’t you _ever_ scare us like that again,” Danny lifts her face from Yuri’s stomach, tears pouring down her face, “You understand?”

“I promise,” Yuri half-shouts, “just _please_ stop crying. Here.” he fumbles for the box of Kleenex, nearly smacking her in the face with it when he shoves it at her.

“Alright,” James sighed and bodily lifted her off of him, “do you need a moment in time out?”

“No,” Danny sniffled, dabbing at her eyes, “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Yuri rubs his temples wondering if it’s too soon for him to go back into a coma.

“Good to have you back,” Ambrose said, holding out his fist and Yuri gladly bumps knuckles with him.

“I’ll be happier once I’m out of here,” Yuri replied.

“We can’t stay long,” James told him, “but, we wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m touched,” Yuri deadpanned, “And…thanks for the bath stuff, by the way.” 

“You’re very welcome,” James said, “Really, it was more for our benefit than yours.” Yuri flips him off.

“What’d I miss?” Yuri asked his team.

“Well, Gamma Unit has taken over the case,” Danny supplies, “they’ve requested we turn over any relevant case material.”

“Most of my notes are stashed at Jade’s,” Yuri said, “everything else was at Otabek’s. I have some stuff on my ph- Oh shit, my phone!”

“I have it,” Ambrose said, “it doesn’t turn on anymore, so I’m not sure how useful it’ll be.”

“Shit,” Yuri muttered.

Their phones all chirp and Danny sighed, “That would be Sara, wondering why we’re not at the crime scene yet.”

“Why the fuck are you still here when there’s corpses to be seen?” Yuri shoos at them, “Go on.” Danny gives him one last squeeze before she opens the Portal to take the rest of the Unit back to London and as soon as they’re gone, Yuri looks over at Otabek who’s far too invested in the cooking show currently on screen for someone who doesn’t really cook.

“Okay,” Yuri grunted, hauling himself back upright, his side twinging a bit as he extends his arms to hold onto the side rails.

“If you need help just say so,” Otabek said.

“I’ve got it,” Yuri grumbled.

“Do I need to-?“

“You don’t need to do shit,” Yuri said, “Just take a seat. We’re gonna have a chat.”

Otabek continues to hover at the bedside and he frowns, “About what?”

“How did you break out of Siegfried’s thrall?” Yuri asked, “My memory’s a bit fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure he was an Enchanter.”

“A what?”

Yuri sighs because, of course, he’s dealing with a total noob. “Enchantment is considered a Dark skill. Some Mance witches develop a…affinity for it.”

Otabek has a contemplative look on his face as he listens, “So…how was Siegfried able to Enchant me from so far away? And with the protection of Jade’s Wards?”

“Fuck if I know,” Yuri said, “If I knew more, I could give you a working theory or something.”

“It was really like being asleep,” Otabek frowned, “It wasn’t…it wasn’t like I was a puppet at all. You know when you’re lucid dreaming and you’re kinda aware that it’s a dream, but you just say, ‘fuck it’ and go along with it anyway? That’s what it was like.”

Yuri nods slowly, “So, how did you break it then? I’ve never heard of anyone being able to break out of an Enchantment unless they’re dying or injured.”

“When you were suddenly there,” Otabek says slowly, “It was like, ‘okay, this is just…my subconscious being weird’, especially the part where I picked you up.”

“Oh yeah,” he mused, “I remember that.”

“Before that I had never seen your Tags up close,” Otabek said, “I didn’t understand how my brain would know the numbers printed on them. So…”

“Only you would _rationalize_ your way out of being fucking Enchanted,” Yuri snorted, “Typical.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not bad. Hilarious, definitely,” Yuri replied.

They go quiet for a moment, Yuri’s gaze drifting to the TV and watching one of the contestants on the show have a meltdown when the soufflé they pull out of the oven is completely deflated.

“Realizing it was all real was the scariest part,” Otabek admitted, his mouth is turned down in a frown, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so useless in my entire life.”

“You get used to it,” Yuri shrugged a shoulder.

“That’s…not exactly what I wanted to hear,” Otabek replied slowly.

“Tough cookies. That’s just how life works. I’ve got fucking _magic_ and I can’t stop bad things from happening. Eventually, you just…you do what you can.”

“Such motivational,” Otabek deadpanned, “Much inspiring.”

“Fuck off,” Yuri laughed.

The nurse knocks just before he comes in with a steaming little container. Rick pulls over a half-desk thing on wheels that he sets the tray on before adjusting the tray’s height so Yuri can eat comfortably in bed.

“My shift will be over here soon,” Rick tells him, “so your night nurse will be someone else, okay? They’ll take good care of you.”

Otabek eyes the reheated vegetables with a bit of trepidation but keeps his opinions to himself while Yuri eats in peace.

“Does your family know where you are?” Yuri asked and Otabek sighed.

“At least close your mouth and finish chewing,” he said, “I’ve called them to let them know I’m alive. I told them I’m visiting a friend in the hospital. They send their condolences.”

Yuri snorts, “They don’t even know me.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t be nice,” Otabek said. Then he goes all quiet and Yuri sighs.

“Just spit it out. I can’t fucking stand it when you sit there with that Kermit face,” Yuri says.

“Kermit face?” Otabek squints at him.

“Here, give me your phone,” Yuri said. Otabek hands it over and Yuri shows him the picture when he finds it.

“I don’t look anything like that,” Otabek protested.

“That is the _exact_ face you make,” Yuri said, “That one. Right there.”

Otabek rubs at the wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, “I was going to tell you that I’m going back to Toronto tomorrow.”

“Good. Take me with you. I’m sick of this fucking place,” Yuri said, reaching over to chuck his plastic dishes in the bin.

Another knock on the door but it’s a lady in a white coat with gray scrubs. “Hi!” she says, “It’s good to see that you’re awake! I’m Dr. Winter, the neurosurgeon. I thought I’d come check on you.”

“Um, nice to meet you,” Yuri said, “Thanks for putting me back together, I guess.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said, then glances at the screen above his head, “Vitals look good. Mind if I take a look at your staples?”

Otabek gets out of the way so the surgeon can circle around the bed. Her gloved fingers prod clinically at his scalp. “This is healing very well. I can actually take the staples out now if you’d like.”

“Please,” Yuri practically begged, “It itches.”

Dr. Winter pokes her head out of the room to ask a passing staff member to bring her what she needs and while she waits, she has Yuri squeeze her hands, lift his legs off the bed, and do some other stuff.

“So far I don’t see any neurological deficits,” she said, “In a moment I’d like to see how you’re walking, but I’m very reassured at this point.”

She takes the staples out and her magic tingles across his scalp in a vague itch as she uses her magic to probe deeper and he can feel his nose scrunching at the discomfort of her touch _inside_ his skull. The nurse gets him unhooked from the monitor and watches with Dr. Winter as he toddles around the room.

“I think it’s safe to discharge you home,” she said, “I’ll forward my notes to the hospitalist and they can do their own assessment. Of course, there’ll be some restrictions at first. No extensive magic use for at least two weeks, especially with your affinity. Healing or not, your body is still a bit fragile. Give it some time. You may still have some weakness here and there, but I wouldn’t be too concerned unless you’re having persistent vision changes or difficulty walking.”

“Can’t get any better than that, I guess,” Yuri muttered. Dr. Winter smiled.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You’ll do just fine,” she stood, “especially if you have your boyfriend there to help you.” she winks at them and leaves the room. 

Yuri’s brain stalls and he stares at the door for a beat or two before slowly turning his head to look at Otabek who’s very pointedly not looking at him which is as good an indication of his guilt as any.

“Why does my surgeon think we’re together?” he asked.

“Uh…well…” Otabek looks a bit shifty, “Ambrose kind of told her that I was your boyfriend? He said it was just easier that way?”

The monitor dings another warning at his rising heart rate and he takes in a deep breath to stem how irritated he is. His lips curl back over his teeth in a feral grimace.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Yuri said, pushing back the blankets and rifling through the folds of the hospital gown to find and peel off the electrodes sticking to his skin.

“Yuri, Dr. Winter just told you to take it easy – “

“Lucky for me, getting revenge will be very easy –, “Another knock on the door interrupts his efforts to get out of bed, and Yuri glares at it, “What now?”

It’s Team Victor come to grace him with their obnoxious presence and, to Yuri’s absolute horror and exasperation, both Georgi and Katsudon burst into tears as soon as they see him.

“See, Gosha,” Mila slaps Georgi on the back and he wheezes through his tears, “told ya he’d bounce back. Our Little Yuri is tough as nails.”

“I’m taller than you,” he reminded her.

“You’ll always be Little Yuri to me,” Mila said with a fangy grin.

“I must say, Yurio, I am _loving_ this new look,” Victor said. Yuri flips him off with both hands because the fucker fucking knows that nickname is _abhorrent_.

“Get bent, baldy,” Yuri spat, “And stop crying!” he barked at Georgi and Katsudon, fingers grasping for the box of tissues before he lobs it at both of them and it smacks Georgi weakly in the shoulder. The monitor is dinging out frantic warnings about his elevated heart rate and it’s only making him angrier.

“See? I don’t even know why you were so worried,” Mila’s voice is flat but clearly amused, “he’s perfectly fine. Just as lively as ever. Oh hey, _Otabek_, good to see you.” the figure skater waves back nervously, and Yuri has no fucking clue what’s happening anymore.

“Are you Yuri’s friend?” Katsudon asked, finally pulling himself together, “I don’t believe we’ve met. You look familiar.”

“Otabek Altin,” Otabek introduces himself, shaking Yuuri’s hand.

“So, _Otabek_,” Mila puts that weird emphasis on his name again, and it clearly means _something_, “Why didn’t you tell us you were famous, hmm?”

“You’re famous?” Georgi asked, abruptly sobering. Otabek shifts nervously.

“Not really,” he said, “I’m a figure skater. Kind of a niche-“

“First Kazakh skater to make it to the Olympics and win gold,” Mila recites, “First Kazakh skater to win the Grand Prix and the World Championships, _three times in a row_.”

“You are so fucking creepy,” Yuri tells her, “Do you Google everyone that I associate with?”

“Just the ones that are slightly sus,” Mila tilts her head, “but, it’s okay though, because he’s hella cute.” She winks at Otabek and he just looks mildly perplexed at the attention. “I looked up your Soundcloud,” she says, “Your mixes are dope.”

“Oh. They’re…not really that good…” Yuri’s pretty sure he’s never seen the skater look so embarrassed in his life and he’s so fucking confused.

The nurse pokes her head in to see what all the commotion – mostly from the monitor – is about and she reminds them that only three visitors at a time are allowed in the unit, before reaching over to silence the monitor and replace the empty IV bag with another one.

“That’s alright, we were going to get lunch anyway,” Mila says, “We’ll bring you something back, kitten.” All subtlety goes out the window as she loops her arm through Otabek’s and bodily drags him out of the room, “Come on Mr. Champion, you’re coming with us.”

“You have lost a lot of weight,” Yuuri points out with a frown, “Have you been eating properly?”

“I eat fine,” Yuri grumbled, _when I’m not in a coma_, “Go on and enjoy your lunch.” He picks up the remote and changes the channel, coming to a stop when he finds a show about snow leopards. He frowns and looks over when he hears the rolling wheels of the physician’s stool, seeing that Victor’s hung back. “You can stop looking at me like that, Yura,” Victor sighed quietly.

“How am I looking at you?” Yuri snorted.

“Like I’m going to steal your organs as soon as you let your guard down,” Victor said flatly, “I think we should talk.”

“Now?” Yuri arched an eyebrow.

“Not now,” Victor said, “But soon. I’m sure there’s some loose ends you have to tie up once you’re out of here but, text or call when you have some time and we’ll talk.”

He’s not sure what the fuck happened in the last week or so to bring about this change, but it’s fucking disturbing. Victor looks like he’s spent the last two weeks drinking himself into a stupor and yet, those eyes are as sharp and chillingly predatory as they always were. As long as Yuri’s known him, Victor’s done his best to make himself as likeable as possible – the airheaded, personable, ‘anything goes’ Captain versus the killing machine trained since birth. Victor stands from the stool, his posture deceptively loose and casual before he fixes Yuri with one of his bright affable smiles and leaves the room.

He watches TV without actually really watching it, dissecting the moment – is it still a moment if it was totally disturbing? – and trying to figure out what Victor was getting at. It fucking bothers him that even though he’s known the old fart for more than a decade he still can’t figure him out. There’s no method to Victor’s madness, but the fucker still somehow manages to be a brilliant Exorcist.

Yuri sags against the pillows, suddenly exhausted and he throws the arm that isn’t hooked up to a million tubes and pressure bags over his eyes. Another knock on the door interrupts his attempt to nap – though how he could possibly nap when he’s been sleeping for literal days is beyond him – and he sits up just as another person in a white coat walks in.

Unlike Dr. Winter, the hospitalist is one of those people who looks perpetually tired. There’s none of the surgeon’s endless cheer and energy and instead he does his own quick assessment of Yuri’s neurological function before dispelling the Exorcist’s hope that he could be discharged right away.

“We’ll finish the IV antibiotics, get some more imaging of your chest, and have our physical therapist evaluate you in the morning,” he says, “Of course, the Agency will have to do their own assessment to clear you to come back to work.”

“Yeah, I know,” Yuri grumbled, “Thanks, doc.”

Ugh. Stuck here until at least tomorrow morning and out of work until further notice.

To make things worse, he has to pee, and it takes the nurse forever and a day to respond to his call light, then get him unhooked so he can shuffle to the bathroom and relieve himself. He catches his reflection in the mirror without the steam from the hot shower mucking up his view and – holy Hades, no wonder Katsudon and Crybaby had cried when they first saw him. He looks like an escaped psych patient thanks to the shoddy surgical haircut, and the repeated post-surgical healing sessions has sucked most of the fat off his bones. Fine blond stubble is starting to crop up in uneven patches on his jaw and he scowls at it in the mirror. He’d given up on growing a beard like his grandpa’s years ago, having learned that he’ll never have that majestic Plisetsky facial hair and he can thank his mother’s Fae genetics for that.

He’d prayed for some peace and quiet so he could be left alone with his thoughts, but now he’s just annoyed at his own brain going in circles. He’s almost grateful for the staff member that fills the silence with inane chatter while she wheels him down to the chaos of the emergency department where they keep the CT scanner.

“So, you’re an Exorcist, huh? My brother wanted to become an Exorcist, but he said the exam was too hard. Now he’s in uni studying law…”

There’s an alarm going off somewhere as he’s wheeled back through the department to go back to his room upstairs.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Panic button,” the transporter tells him, “a patient is coding.”

Mila, Otabek, and Yuuri make their grand reappearance just as Rick is getting more blood samples from the IV in his arm.

“We came to say goodbye,” Yuuri said, “and to give you a proper dinner.”

His stomach lets out a desolate little gurgle at the familiar aroma coming from the to-go containers and a strange fuzzy feeling (it’s not fondness, dammit. It’s _not_.) takes up root in his chest when he sees that Katsudon has brought him fucking katsudon with a side of gyoza, and miso soup.

“It’s not my mom’s cooking,” Yuuri said, “but this always makes me feel better when I’m sick so…”

“If that stupid baldy doesn’t put a ring on it, I will fucking murder him,” Yuri tells him seriously.

“I would _pay_ to see that fight!” Mila cackles, “Hell, I’ll rent a venue and sell tickets. Otabek’ll make popcorn.”

“I will not,” Otabek said evenly.

“Please don’t kill anyone,” Katsudon said, “Enjoy your food, okay? And get some rest.”

Team Victor takes their leave but Otabek hangs behind like an awkward ghost, and Yuri pays him no mind as he digs into his dinner. He looks up halfway through inhaling the pork cutlet bowl to glare at Otabek when he hears his snort.

“You got something to say?” he demands around a mouthful of rice.

“Didn’t anybody ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” Otabek wrinkled his nose. Yuri finishes chewing and he swallows.

“Yep,” Yuri said.

“Did it ever occur to you to maybe take their advice?”

“Nope.”

Otabek sighs and doesn’t say another word until Yuri’s sitting back up against the pillows with a satisfied sigh.

“Okay, you can ask your questions now,” Yuri said after several precious minutes of sitting and savoring.

“What makes you think I have questions?” Otabek arched an eyebrow.

“You always have questions,” Yuri said, “it’s kind of your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Yeah, you’re the Questions Guy. That’s your new name now,” Yuri said.

“Fine. I’ll bite. So, Mila’s a vampire, right?” Otabek said.

“Yep.”

“But she can eat food?” Otabek looks so confused.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t understand why Otabek’s so confused, “Every vampire used to be a human. Why shouldn’t they be able to eat food?”

“I thought they could only survive on blood?” Otabek said.

“It’s complicated and the mundane media is dumb. Next.”

Otabek shrugs and reaches into his pocket, “I, um, I remembered I still had these.” He holds his closed fist out and Yuri slowly extends his slightly cupped hand. His Tags fall into his palm and he breathes out a grateful sigh.

“Oh, thank gods. I thought I was gonna have to apply for new ones,” Yuri said, and promptly put the ball-chain around his neck, “You wanna talk about pains in the ass? Trying to get replacement Tags is on the list.”

“One of the nurses handed them to me when we brought you in,” Otabek said, “so I kinda held onto them for you.”

“Thanks. You’ve saved me some trouble,” Yuri can feel them against his chest, already warm from being in Otabek’s pocket.

“No problem.”

The silence between them is awkward for a little bit and Yuri has questions of his own – how Otabek is going to pretend his ankle is still injured when he goes back to Toronto, whether or not Jade’s spoken to him about his options…if there’s any options at all. But he keeps his mouth shut and eventually his full stomach lulls him to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title - Being Alive is Fucking Expensive: An Essay, by Yuri P.
> 
> I know I've mentioned my poor outline multiple times, but if y'all only knew...
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated! <3


	22. I'll Keep All My Emotions Right Here, And One Day I'll Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: themes of grief/mourning.

_October 2024; Chicago_

Jade stands at the stove, gently stirring something in a saucepan over a low flame. She’s a decent potioneer, but Yuri’s still a little nervous. Cosmetic potions have the tendency to come out a little wonky if just the slightest thing is off and while he’s fairly confident in his ability to rock just about anything, he still doesn’t want to have to deal with the hassle of any possibly permanent after-effects.

“Why are you so worried?” tittered Foster, swirling a glass of suspiciously rich red wine, “You’ll get your luscious locks back.”

“Why are you here?” Yuri narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the ginger. The vampire is at _most_ only one-hundred-sixty-two centimeters tall, but him being shorter only means he’s closer to Satan and therefore not to be trusted.

“A little birdie told me you needed a haircut,” Foster tells him, then poses, “and since I’m more than qualified for the job, I volunteered my services.”

Yuri glances at Jade who’s still facing the stove, then back to the vampire sitting opposite him at the table. Foster’s kit is already neatly arranged like he had anticipated that Yuri would just go with it. There’s a low sigh from the stove and he looks over as Jade is turning the burner off and lifting the saucepan containing the tincture to pour off the contents into a waiting glass that she hands to him. The contents aren’t hot like he’d expected them to be straight off the stove, instead the glass is barely lukewarm in his hand. The potion looks like watered down strawberry milk, smells like sour jolly ranchers, and it tastes strongly of artificial cherry as it goes down. He wrinkles his nose as he considers the minute dregs at the bottom of the glass, “You couldn’t have made it grape flavor?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Plisetsky,” Jade deadpanned, yanking back the glass and taking it over to the sink to wash it. His scalp starts to itch and tingle like mad as the magic starts to work. Fifteen minutes later and his hair hangs all the way to his butt.

“I look like Cousin It,” Yuri complained, after he spits out a chunk.

“I knew I brewed it too strong,” Jade sighed.

“I’m gonna start calling you Tangled from now on,” Foster snickered, then he starts to sing, “Flower gleam and glow! Let your power sh-“

“You know what, I’ll just cut it myself,” Yuri reaches for the scissors but Foster snatches them first.

“Don’t you dare,” the vampire growled with his fangs bared, “That hair deserves to be treated with respect.”

“Then get to it. I’d like to go home before the weekend you know,” Yuri gestured to his head.

Foster puts down his glass of wine and gives the leopard print cape he’d brought a dramatic swoosh before draping it around Yuri’s front and buttoning it at the back. Yuri’s magically extended hair is gathered into a ponytail and Foster snips it all in one go. Yuri stops him before he can throw it out.

“Seriously?” the vampire arched an eyebrow.

“It’s wasteful,” Yuri told him.

“You practitioners are so weird,” Foster muttered, setting the ponytail on the table. The comb rakes smoothly through his hair, followed by the snip-snip of the scissors.

“Thanks,” Yuri mumbled, “for doing this for me.”

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands in this hair since you were a baby Warlock,” Foster said, raking his fingers covetously through pale golden strands, “All arms and legs and too much conditioner.” Foster lets out a nostalgic sigh, no doubt thinking back to the weekends and long summers Yuri would spend in Chicago, soaking up every single bit of knowledge he could get. He remembers that hunger to learn, greedy for progress as he started to _finally_ mold his element.

“Et voile!” Foster holds a mirror in front of him with a flourish.

The vampire’s given him bangs and his hair is slightly longer in the front to frame his face, while the back is short enough to expose his neck but not too short. There’s enough length for him to pull it back into a stubby ponytail if he needs to.

“I like it,” Yuri declares, and Foster exposes his fangs in a smug grin.

It’s a definite change. He’d half-expected to go back to looking at the same reflection all over again but…he thinks he might like this better. At least for now.

He helps set the kitchen to rights, but before he can escape through a Portal back to London Jade stops him, “Let’s chat.”

Foster makes his (unsubtle) exit with a wink, a two-fingered salute, and a “Later, Captain!” directed at Jade. 

“You gonna lecture me?” he asked.

“No,” she corrected, “Just an update. You worked hard on this case. I thought you’d like to know what’s going on.”

She tells him how Ashlyn and Siegfried are both being detained at separate facilities. The latter is locked away in a maximum-security remand center with no hope of seeing the sun until trial due to his dangerous abilities. Jade slides her tablet across the table, “Dr. Siegfried Koeman Ph.D., Mance witch. He’s a neuroscientist, used to be the head of our own research and development department. One of the first pioneers of modern magical medicine as we know it. He’s also completely batshit insane.”

Yuri snorted, “You didn’t have to tell me. He _reeks_ of crazy.” He skims the case file, lingering on the notes about his stint as the head of research and development and how there were inquiries being opened into the projects he’d proposed to the Council. There’d been heavy suspicion that he was doing illegal demonic experiments and after his abrupt resignation in ’03, he’d virtually disappeared. “Well, I’m glad he’s locked up.”

“As am I,” Jade said grimly.

“And…what about Otabek?” Yuri asked. Jade slides her tablet back across the table.

“The case would undoubtedly be even stronger with his testimony,” she said, “but…”

His chances at returning to a semblance of a normal life will go up in smoke if he does. The IMC will want him locked away – or worse, they’ll indenture him into their service. Their own private little soldier.

“Our little mercenary friend will do just fine as part of the evidence,” Jade continued, “whether he was willing or not doesn’t matter. Otabek’s testimony isn’t really necessary.”

“Did you talk to him about it?” Yuri asked.

“I _should_,” Jade said.

“And the conspirators?”

“Mila can still pull the data off your phone if the memory is intact,” Jade said, “between the evidence you have and what we managed to pull off the computers in the facility, it’ll be enough for the High Inquisitor to investigate.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Yuri frowned, “I mean, the old bag of scales may be incorruptible, but you’ll just be handing him justification for burning down the government.”

“He won’t,” Jade said, “but if his investigation finds it necessary then so be it. The IMC and the Agency doesn’t deserve to stand if it’s going to abuse its power. It was established to protect us. That isn’t an excuse for them to be gambling with the laws of magic and the universe.”

“Well, there goes the neighborhood,” Yuri said, “and our source of income.” She gives him a look. “I didn’t say you were wrong, did I? I’m thinking about the implications.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” Jade deadpanned, “you just got out of the hospital.”

“Don’t start treating me like I’m fragile now,” Yuri stood from the table, “I’ve been through a lot worse.”

He goes home for the first time in what feels like ages. On the other side, London is covered in a damp grey haze. Mist clings to his freshly cut hair as he makes his way out of the side alley and up to the front door of his building.

The mailbox is fit to burst, and he scoffs at it before carrying it all inside, cursing when a few stray pieces of junk mail flutter to the floor in an annoying trail behind him and he has to go back and pick those up just to immediately chuck them in the bin. When he separates the important things from the unnecessary clutter, the former pile is pathetically small compared to the latter. Most of the official envelopes are invoices, bank statements, and unnecessary reminders that rent is due. Never-mind that he’s lived in this fucking building for three years now.

There’s an envelope with a Russian return address and he rips it open, unfolding the sheaf of papers inside. As soon as he sees the form attached to what looks like an official notice, his stomach sinks, “Son of a bitch.”

He knows it’s only a formality. When the Kremlin wants your fucking land, they make a show of asking politely before they take it.

“Fuck me,” he cursed, crumpling the papers when he sees the demolition date. It doesn’t matter if he turns them in or not, they’ll bulldoze and build over it regardless.

He’s on strict orders to rest and his Unit will eviscerate him if they find out he opened two international Portals within an hour. Granted, Russia is closer to London than Chicago but still…

He can’t put this off.

The little bit of backwoods where he spent a lot of his early summers and a good majority of his adolescent life after his parents died looks just as the same as it did when Yuri made his escape all those years ago. Even now, looking at the squat little house that his papa was raised in makes his gut twist.

The neighborhood is eerily quiet. At this time of day, the little urchins are usually riding shoddy secondhand bikes up and down the street or making all sorts of commotion as they play. Mrs. Pasternak isn’t sitting out in her wheelchair on her rickety porch and he sees that the windows have been boarded.

There are no curious eyes as he walks up to the front door of his old house and puts the key in the lock. The door opens on squeaky hinges and he sneezes when he steps inside. He still knows the floorplan better than the back of his own hand.

There’s a thick layer of dust covering the floor and the house creaks even more ominously after being battered by the elements without any of grandpa’s haphazard ‘repairs’. Dust clings heavily to the cobwebs and covers the floor in a thick enough carpet that Yuri leaves distinct footprints when he crosses the kitchen and comes to a stop at the edge of the living room. The matching upholstery on the La-Z-Boys has faded with time, and he swallows when he sees the orange prescription bottles on one of the end tables – their labels also faded and the medication long expired.

He tells himself its all the dust making his eyes water when his vision blurs and his throat tightens. He turns away and makes for his grandpa’s room. Everything was left as is. The bed is still untidy, the closet still thrown wide open after he’d torn through it looking for dedulya’s best suit.

Yuri conjures the box of bin bags stashed under his kitchen sink back in London and starts emptying the drawers. He finds the dusty old box with his grandparents’ wedding rings – grandmother’s tarnished to hell with age – and sets it in the keep pile, hoping that maybe he can have them salvaged by a jeweler. There are old bank books that he sets aside for later and photo albums with yellowed pages. He sits back on his heels, vaguely remembering sitting on the shag carpeting with his babulya, this album in his chubby child hands. Like most old people, she’d had a story for every picture and had known every face in the book. His eyes trace the features of his parents, a handful of their photos crammed in the back pages of the book.

He gives his head a sharp shake and puts the album in the ‘keep’ pile before he tackles the closet. All of grandpa’s clothes either end up in the charity or the rubbish pile because dedulya was the type of man who refused to buy new trousers until the seams on his old ones were practically coming apart. There are boots with soles so thin he can tell they won’t survive another three months of casual wear, so those end up in the rubbish pile too.

He finds crumbling shoeboxes full of old photos that never made it into albums, and he sets those aside to keep as well. His hand strikes something hard and pointy when he sweeps his hand over the top shelf for anything he might’ve missed, and he lets out a sharp pained curse.

It takes a minute to get a good grip on whatever it is, but he finally – angrily – pulls it down off the shelf and…it’s a book.

A fucking heavy book.

He peels off the protective brown wrapping paper and his anger dries up when he sees the family name embossed in the leather on both the cover and spine: Плисе́цкая

There’s a quiet plop onto the thick front cover and more tears quickly follow the first before he even realizes he’s crying.

His weight sinks onto the dusty mattress, his shoulders bowing as he chokes on his grief in the silence of his grandparent’s old house.

“Gods-_fucking_-dammit.”

He doesn’t understand how it can still _hurt_ so damn much. The hard edges of the Incantus’s leather binding bite into his palms as he grips it impossibly tight, and it still pales in comparison to the gaping ache in his chest. A low sound cuts through the dusty silence, shaky and pathetic. When he hears it again, he realizes it’s _him_ making that sound and once he starts, he can’t stop no matter how hard he tries to stifle the noises bubbling up through his chest because the walls are thin as shit and you can’t even fart without the neighbors knowing about it.

_I have to keep going_.

He scrubs at his face with the rough edges of his sleeves, his hands shaking as he continues to sort through old clothes. Keepsakes that aren’t falling apart are put in the ‘maybe’ pile for review and a good majority of everything else ends up in the garbage.

There’s nothing salvageable in his old room and he tosses everything in the pile out back to be incinerated.

Even if the house weren’t going to be demolished, he doesn’t think he could ever bring himself to live here again. He’s reminded of his cowardice and his failure everywhere he looks. Too many painful memories sit like an anvil on his chest (“Be good for dedulya, Yuranya. We’ll be right back.”). More recent are the sounds of his grandpa’s uneven shuffle and the shaky gasps for air as he had to stop to catch his breath even just when getting up to go to the bathroom. He pictures dedulya sitting in his worn La-Z-Boy and nodding off in front of the television because he couldn’t sleep laying flat. 

It’s hard to breathe here and he hurriedly banishes what little he decided to keep to his apartment in London and he quickly follows it, blinking away tears as he kicks off his dusty shoes by the door and shuts himself in his bathroom to wash the dust out of his hair.

The pipes are screaming, and the water is cold by the time he gets out. He wraps himself in a towel, shivering and his eyes are red and swollen.

The Incantus sits on his kitchen table for nearly half a day before painful curiosity has him picking it up and flipping through its pages. There’s unfamiliar writing on the first three pages – elegant and spidery Cyrillic that scrawls in neat lines across the page, describing how to properly harness natural lightning, to summon or calm thunderstorms, and avoid literal burnout. He realizes with a jolt that this is his _grandmother’s _handwriting. It’s _her_ technique. There’s no date written on the entry, but it must have been written not long before she died. 

He swallows tightly and flips to the next page. There are sketches – his papa’s most likely. Dedushka had mentioned how papa liked to draw but wasn’t interested in going to art school.

His tears are sneaky, and one plops onto the page. He quickly blots it away with his thumb before it can soak the pages and ruin the delicately inked drawings. He doesn’t even know how it’s possible to cry even more after he already feels so wrung out.

The knock on his front door is hardly proper warning before the bolt slides open – coaxed by magic – and he knows that it’s Danny before he hears her voice. “There you are! Why didn’t you wait for me? You’re not supposed to be doing magic- “he hears her stop and the abrupt silence is loaded. The front door quietly shuts, and the lock engages. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he croaked, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve and he looks up at her. It’s the most serious he’s seen her in a long while. Until he’d met Danny, he hadn’t understood the difference between _empathy_ and _pity_. The former is written in the solemn set of her mouth and the unwavering kindness in her eyes. She conjures some tissues and sets the box down in front of him before she walks into the kitchen. He can hear her rummaging around in the cabinets and the hiss of the faucet as she fills the kettle.

“I didn’t think it’d still hurt this much,” he admits when she sets a gently steaming cup of tea in front of him – _chamomile_, he recognizes – and he cups it with his palms, absorbing the warmth.

“It doesn’t stop,” she says, “Not really. You just sort of…grow around the hurt, I guess? It becomes a part of you.” He remembers that she lost her sister last year.

“Well, that fucking sucks,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Danny agreed, “It does.”

She doesn’t ask about the Incantus bearing his family name on the kitchen table, the pile of dusty keepsakes on the floor, or the scattered mail. They quietly sip in silence and Yuri still feels like his innards have all been scooped out and scattered on the floor but, still, a bit better.

“So much for that ‘time heals all wounds’ bullshit,” Yuri grumbled into his tea.

“Everyone heals at their own pace,” Danny sighed, “it’s fine if you’re not over it still. There’s no rule that says you have to be alright by x amount of years, especially when you’ve lost someone you were so close to. Like you and your grandpa, or me and Emma. I _still_ miss her like hell every single day.”

It’s been well over a decade since he lost his parents, and only three years since he added grandpa to the family plot. He knows that he should visit and be a good son – a good grandson – but the thought of going and seeing the reminder that they’re gone forever…he doesn’t think he can handle that. 

“Does visiting help?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” Danny said, “Mostly I like staying busy, keeping my mind on the work.” She gives him a suspicious look, “No more unauthorized transcontinental travel for you, though. You’re supposed to be _resting_.”

“I’m fine!” he throws his arms up, “Look! I’m the picture of health!”

“You were the picture of death two days ago!”

“If I were going to fall over dead, I’d have done it already!”

Danny narrows her eyes in a threatening glare, “I’ll tell James.”

“You _wouldn’t_.”

“Try me,” she said, then stood from the table, “Call us if you need something. You don’t have to go it alone, you know.”

He knows the offer applies to the dusty pile of keepsakes on his floor, but he also knows that there’s work waiting for her back at the office without him there to offload the cases that undoubtedly keep cropping up on their desk. He considers telling her what Jade told him, but it’s likely that his Unit got the update before he did since he was in the hospital for so long. He’ll be stuck at home for the first time since his suspension was made official, aimless and left with too much free time.

So, Yuri thanks her for the tea and shoos her out the door.

The rest of the day is spent trying to distract himself from reopened wounds by watching Netflix original garbage and reconnecting his old game system so he can lose spectacularly and rage-quit every time his player character gets killed.

James visits him the next morning, question marks written all over his face as he tries to comprehend how the flat became a disaster when Yuri’s literally been home for little less than twenty-four hours.

“I worry about you, Yuri,” James said, “I really do.”

“Did you come here to comment on my cleaning habits or to say something useful?” Yuri asked.

“I came to tell you that we’re working on getting your suspension reversed,” James said, “So I’d expect a summons from HQ within the next few days.”

_Fuck_.

“Calm down,” James reassured him, “I’ll help you prepare for the meeting. We’ll go over everything in detail once the summons comes through. It’s so obvious your suspension was wrongful no matter what Clacher put in the paperwork-“

“Wrongful suspension or not, James, they could argue that what I did is vigilantism,” Yuri said.

He knows what he did was right, but he’s also a realist. Just because Clacher is a corrupt asshole doesn’t mean that Yuri will get a free pass. For the first time since this whole mess started, he starts to confront the very real possibility that they’ll take his Tags for this. Forcing him into early retirement is too kind a gesture that happens to agents that are old as shit and don’t want to let go of the glory days. Permanent suspension is what happens to Exorcists like him who can’t let shit go.

“They won’t take your Tags, Yuri,” James said seriously, “_That_ I’m sure of.”

“Well, well,” Yuri arched a brow at him, “where was all this boundless confidence when we needed it most, huh?” He should trust his Captain, he knows, but…he also knows that the department and his government is rotten. He witnessed the conspiracy take place with his own eyes and there’s a part of him that recoils from dedicating his life to an institution that would disregard the Code of Law they built to protect magickind out of fear.

“Don’t be a shit,” James said, “they’d be fools to terminate you, especially with the situation out there worsening as it is.”

“How bad is it now?” Yuri’s arms dropped back to his sides.

“London hasn’t been hit quite as hard. Not yet, at least. But we’re getting there. Three Hunters in the past week have been killed here. We need all the boots on the ground we can get. At this rate, the mundane media will start to notice.”

“Great,” Yuri deadpanned, “Love it.”

Terminated or kept on as an Exorcist only to be used as cannon fodder. Never mind that only approximately three percent – numbers courtesy of a trusted source in Intelligence, thank you – of their entire international workforce is actually trained to fight demons.

Nothing but great options here, really.

“For now, I think you should treat these next few days as a little holiday,” James said, “You earned it.”

“You expect me to sit on my ass when we’ve got a literal infestation on our hands?” Yuri said.

“I do,” James said, “At least until you’re reinstated by the department and cleared by medical.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Yuri groaned.

“I think this’ll be good for you,” James said with forced cheer, “Run some errands, maybe…make this place more livable?”

“Oh, fuck off. It’s not like I live in a hovel,” Yuri said.

James gives him a Look and then glances at his wrist when his smartwatch vibrates, “We’ll talk more later when the summons comes through. Try and eat a proper breakfast, yeah?”

“Yes, _dad_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick disclaimer: I don't speak Russian and I used Google translate to get the Cyrillic spelling of Plisetsky. If it's wrong let me know. [Edit 09/20/20: I fixed it! Thank you to faerygodtiger in the comments for your help! <3]
> 
> I _was_ gonna post this a little earlier, but I got food poisoning. I do feel much better now. 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated! <3


	23. This is My No-No Square

_November 2024; European Branch Headquarters – Geneva_

Yuri is confused when he first enters the office and sees a haughty Foxbeast behind the desk instead of the droopy-eyed female witch he remembers shaking hands with on the day he was initiated. The NCP Director has a severe look in his amber eyes, and a physical personnel file – Yuri’s most definitely – is open on the desk.

“Agent Yuri Plisetsky, B-1-N, ARN ID 0301938475.”

“Yes, sir.”

“From what I understand, former Sub-quarter Chief Ronald Clacher suspended you for gross insubordination. Namely, and I quote, ‘failure to comply with direct orders.’”

“Yes, sir,” Yuri repeats, just like James coached him. A part of him is intensely glad that Clacher got fired and arrested for embezzlement, bribery, and obstruction of justice but he still wants to kick the fucker in the godsdamned teeth for jeopardizing Yuri’s career this way.

“Elaborate, Agent,” the Foxbeast prompted.

“Former Chief Clacher insisted our investigation into the HHN be closed because he thought it was damaging our reputation in the city. I objected to this and I was suspended.”

“I see.”

Yuri feels his fingers twitch at his sides while the Director slowly flips through the papers on his desk, amber eyes tracking whole sentences across each page.

“I understand the case has been reopened by the North American Branch’s Gamma Unit?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you’ve been listed as a prominent witness?” there’s a steely note to the Director’s tone and Yuri plants his weight.

“Yes, sir.”

“Elaborate, Agent.”

“I was captured, sir,” Yuri said, “The lead scientist was interested in my plasma manipulation abilities and wanted to use them for a separate experiment of his.”

_It’s in the fucking file_, he doesn’t say. He gave Jade his formal testimony three days ago. Since Otabek appearing in court would be counterproductive to the whole point of striking the skater’s name from the record, Yuri essentially volunteered as tribute.

The NCP Director looks expectant, like he’s waiting for Yuri to give up the details, so, “I was held for at least three days before I managed to get out of my cell and attempt to make arrests.”

“Despite the fact that you are currently suspended,” the Director arches an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir.”

The Director makes a note, “Tell me, Agent, about your relationship with Director Baranovskaya.”

_What fucking relationship?_ he doesn’t say.

“She was my mentor, sir,” Yuri said, “We don’t talk much these days.” He and Lilia haven’t spoken in almost five years.

“Hm,” he murmurs, then starts to read, “’Candidate Plisetsky displays remarkable potential, moral fiber, and the prowess to succeed as an Agent and a Hunter both.’” The Director turns another page, “There are several comments on your progress into an excellent detective despite the demerits former Chief Clacher notated in your file.”

Yuri ran his tongue over his teeth and tucks his hands into the small of his back in a loose parade rest, his nails digging into his palm and the pain reminds him that he’s got to keep his fucking cool.

“I don’t make a habit of reading my own file, sir,” Yuri said.

“Perhaps you should,” the director replied flatly. He clearly isn’t impressed, and Yuri feels strangely calm as he becomes certain that the new Director will permanently suspend him. They face the largest Inquisition in magical history – the changes have clearly already begun if the old Director had been quietly booted out.

“There is no doubt that your suspension by former Sub-quarter Chief Clacher was questionable, given the pending allegations against him,” the NCP Director says, “I must deliberate further. The conflicting notations in your file provide two very different stories.”

Yuri opens his mouth, but the Director beats him to it, “I _will_ say this Agent Plisetsky: your behavior following the suspension – wrongful or not – was that of a loose cannon and that will not be tolerated in this department. We are to act as pillars of the Code and magical excellence. Is that understood?”

_If you’re going to terminate me, just get it over with_, his brain screams.

“Yes, Director,” Yuri says, feeling like a robot.

“You’re dismissed.”

The pressure in his chest loosens as soon as the double doors shut with a low snap behind him. He’s sure if he had his phone on him it would be blowing up with texts and calls from his Unit, demanding updates about the meeting and whether or not he’d made it home.

He’s not entirely sure he’s ready to face them yet.

He can feel his eyes burning in the quiet of the elevator and he lets his finger sit on the button to keep the doors closed.

_I’m _not_ going to cry_, he tells himself. He’s so sick of crying. Crying never solved anything.

He’s about to push ‘L’ but pauses, his fingers hovering over the rows of buttons on the control panel and his thumb hits the button marked with the number seventeen – HUNTER.

It’s always been strange how quiet this floor is compared to the chaos of the lobby so many floors below. The hallways branch off each other like a million dendrites, with the main corridor acting like a giant nerve center that ends with the Assistant Director (and Team Victor) at one end and the Director’s office all the way at the other.

The office looks…different. He notices the two new sets of monitors on two of the previously empty desks (he wonders if one of them has the drawing of the penis he did in Sharpie on the underside). Victor is the only one there, sitting at his desk and steadily typing up what must be a report.

“I was hoping you’d come by,” Victor said.

“Where is everyone?” Yuri asked.

“I gave them the rest of the day off,” Victor said, “but I still haven’t turned in my report.”

Yuri grabs a chair and drags it across the floor until he’s sitting beside Victor’s desk. He kicks up his feet and leans back, “Well, old man? You said you wanted to talk.”

“Always so blunt,” Victor sounded amused, “Some things never change.” he still looks tired, but at least he’s shaved since Yuri’s last seen him. Victor hits ‘save’ on the document he’s typing before he surveys the pile of manila folders on his desk whilst clicking his tongue. He pulls one from the pile and sets it down within Yuri’s reach. “I pulled a copy for you to keep. Of course, if you’d rather hear it from me then that’s fine too.”

It’s thick. Too thick to be just the IR filed after his parents died. Yuri realizes with a jolt it’s the _entire case file_. The Archive number stamped in faded ink at the top right-hand corner of the file and on the sticky-uppy label part is familiar to him, after his many many attempts to access the digital file only to be denied.

“Someone told me that they’d died during an infestation,” Yuri said, “just like the one we’re currently having. Is that true?” It pissed him off that fucking Ashlyn had known more about the incident that killed his parents than he did, and he was their fucking son.

Victor sighed and leaned back in his chair, tapping his mouth with his finger, “There have been several demonic infestations recorded in our history. We’re in the midst of the first global one, but, you didn’t hear that from me.” Yuri nodded and Victor continued, “Prague was having a bit of a demon problem the year your parents died. We managed to keep it contained to the city – barely – but there were still rampant disappearances. At that point, I’d only been a part of your parents’ Unit for fourteen months-ish.” Victor clicks his tongue thoughtfully, “Natasha noticed a cloister of reported disappearances around one of the metro platforms and suspected there was a nest in the old service tunnel beneath it. She had bang-on instincts, your mom. Humans only go missing so often, and in such quantity, when there’s a mother preparing to feed her spawn.”

Yuri contains his shiver of disgust at the imagery, “What happened?”

“The tunnel collapsed,” Victor said, his voice clipped and clinical – hollow – “and we got separated. The mother went on the prowl and her spawn were very close to hatching.” Yuri can tell that Victor’s brain isn’t entirely in the present anymore, “Adrian sustained grievous injuries in the cave-in. We were overwhelmed just as I got to him.”

Yuri’s never seen a demon’s nest ever in his life, but he imagines something similar to a spider’s nest cracking open and horrible hellspawn swarming in a hundred pincers, claws, and teeth.

“Aspid venom is nasty,” Victor continued, “I’m sure you know this. I thought we’d gotten Nat help in time…”

He remembers waiting in the hospital lobby for news about his mama and praying for her to make it because he’d already been told his papa hadn’t. Grandpa had refused to let Yuri go back and see her (“I want you to remember her as she was. You shouldn’t have to see her like that.”).

“They’d been kind to me, your parents,” Victor mused, “It was the first time I’d felt validated as an Exorcist, being under their leadership. I couldn’t ever forget that. I’d like to think if they were still here, I’d still be a part of their Unit.”

Yuri swallows hard and then he snorts, “Don’t be ridiculous, baldy. Everything would be similar to how it is now. You, Captain of your own Unit. And me…” _bombing my career_.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Victor sighed, and his eyes crinkle a little when he looks over at Yuri, “They were always very proud of you. They’d be proud of you now.”

“There’s nothing to be proud of,” Yuri scoffed, “My career’s in the shitter and grandpa…” He breathes in tight and holds it. _No tears. Not now_.

The first year after Lilia had turned him away and told him to find his potential out there in the big wide world, he’d started to think that maybe she’d done him a favor after all. Being a bookie hadn’t been that bad. He didn’t have to worry about getting his face torn off, and grandpa slept a little easier at night knowing that Yuri was just dealing with petty criminals.

And then grandpa had ended up in the hospital needing emergency surgery and Yuri didn’t have any of that sweet HUNTER money to pay for it. The medication to keep the old man’s failing heart working wasn’t cheap, Nikolai skipped doses to make the pills stretch and within six months he was back in the ICU. Yuri had cleaned out his savings just to keep them from absolutely drowning in medical debt.

It felt like one day grandpa was being given his diagnosis and seemingly overnight Yuri was making funeral arrangements. 

“Your grandfather’s death wasn’t your fault,” Victor said, “Magic doesn’t make us immune to the march of time. Look at Yakov and Lilia!”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” Yuri narrowed his eyes.

“That depends. Is it working?”

“Not really,” Yuri deadpanned, “Nice try though. I respect your attempts to act like a normal human being.”

Victor pouts, “And here I thought we were having a heart to heart.”

Yuri takes his feet off the desk, “For what it’s worth, I appreciate it. You telling me the truth, I mean.” He knows Victor’s broken some rules to give him this. HUNTER cases require a level of clearance not available to bookies like him.

“You’re their son. It didn’t make sense to me that you shouldn’t be allowed to know what happened,” Victor said, “There’s a lot of things about this Agency I don’t understand.”

He sounds…odd. Yuri narrows his eyes at him, and he has to wonder, “What are you up to, baldy?”

“Hm?” Victor blinks, “Just lost in thought, I suppose.”

“Whatever it is, you better fucking talk to Katsudon about it,” Yuri said, then jabbed a finger at the older Exorcist, “I fucking mean it. Don’t fuck this up with your selfish bullshit.”

Victor looks startled and then he looks _delighted_ and Yuri thinks, _Oh gods. What have I done?_

“You’re so protective,” Victor said, “It’s so cute!”

“Ugh. I’m fucking leaving,” Yuri tucked the case file in his jacket.

“Should I tell Yuuri to expect you for dinner?” Victor said cheerfully, “Ooh! I’ll make dessert!”

“BYE!” Yuri shouts and hurriedly makes a Portal to escape the obnoxious effervescence that is Captain Dipshit Nikiforov.

He throws the case file down on his kitchen table, toes off his boots, and sheds his jacket before collapsing onto his couch with a low groan.

“Fuck my life,” he groans into the cushions.

He doesn’t know why he bothered to waste brain cells worrying about the Dipshit Duo. They’re so fucking idiotic they’ll skate through whatever drama comes their way and Yuri has his own bullshit to worry about without unnecessarily making their problems his.

The weight of his meeting with the NCP Director sits between his shoulder blades and his lungs begin to burn the longer he keeps his face mushed into the couch.

_Suffocating is a quick death, right? Maybe if I held my breath a little longer – _

He can hear his phone ringing in the next room, and he lifts his head from the cushions to look at the screen when he conjures it to his hand – still ringing. Danny’s trying to call him, and he takes a moment before swiping to answer it.

“I just got out,” he said, “I’ll be there in a few.”

“Oh, okay,” Danny immediately sounds appeased, if a bit worried. He can hear the low commotion of the pub in the background and Yuri hauls himself up off the couch to change into clothes that are a bit more resilient against the cold.

The pub that they usually frequent is a bit of a dive, with the entrance inconveniently hidden in one of the narrowest alleyways in all of London. His Unit already have a table and Ambrose is sipping beer out of a frothy glass.

“Went ahead and ordered for you,” Danny nudges a glass of single-malt whiskey across the table, “Figured you’d need it.”

“Thanks,” Yuri picks it up and takes a sip.

“So, what happened? How’d it go?” James prompted, beating Danny to it (to her utmost consternation if her pout is anything to go by).

“About as well as I expected,” Yuri muttered, “I’ll probably be handing in my Tags by the end of the week.”

“What makes you say that?” Ambrose asked, setting down his glass with a frown.

Yuri explains how the Director had gone through his file with a fine-toothed comb, so much so he’d even found the comments Lilia had put in –

“Wait…’he’?” James looks confused, “The NCP Director is a female.” So, Yuri’s memory did serve him well, which means the droopy-eyed witch he remembers was probably quietly removed from her position and promptly replaced with either the assistant director or – more likely – they got someone entirely new for the job.

“Pretty sure the Foxbeast I met with was male,” Yuri deadpanned, “Unless, I somehow missed something.”

“Why would the leadership change without notifying us?” James frowned, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It probably isn’t completely official yet,” Danny suggested, “But if the old Director’s been booted, it means the cull has already started, starting with the people at the top.”

“As it should,” James said.

The fact that it’s happening so quietly means the High Inquisitor has taken the evidence Jade presented to him very seriously. Making a spectacle of everything would give the perpetrators too much head’s up and they’d undoubtedly run away before they could ever face punishment; news of the Inquisition would spread like wildfire throughout the international community. The IMC has spent nearly seven centuries building up an image of solidarity and virtue in the name of protecting the magical community. A crack in the façade could very well mean the complete breakdown in quiet relations between supernaturals and the modern world they live in. Their way of life would come to an end – no more hiding in plain sight or easy coexistence, they would all just be hiding.

Yuri drains his glass to drown out his thoroughly maudlin thoughts and gets up to order another. Ambrose doesn’t look too surprised when Yuri comes back with his second drink, raising his glass in a silent ‘cheers’ before taking a sip of his beer.

“As I was saying earlier,” James sighed, “They’re not going to terminate you. They can’t afford to. Recruitment is too low for them to find an adequate replacement in time.”

“You keep saying that like it’s supposed to make me feel better,” Yuri said flatly.

“’Adequate replacement’,” Danny mocked, then rolled her eyes, “You sound like an HR rep.”

“This new Director doesn’t give a flying fuck about my shining qualities if I can’t toe the line,” Yuri said, “I’m lucky he didn’t have me arrested for vigilantism. Hell, he might still.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Danny said anxiously, “You’re too pretty for prison, Yuri.”

“Uh…thanks?”

The conversation, somehow, turns to the dangers of magical dating apps and Yuri snorts with laughter at Danny describing the most awkward date of her life.

“The look on his face when he found out I was halfsies,” Danny said, “_Ugh_. I should’ve just left.”

“You should’ve,” James agreed, “Nobody’s allowed to judge you for your species.”

“I just want a wholesome romance,” Danny threw up her arms, nearly smacking James in the face, “Like Ambrose and Zhenya. Or Yuri and Otabek-“

Yuri coughs as the liquor abruptly goes down the wrong pipe and holy fuck does it fucking _burn_ – “Godsdammit, Danny,” he wheezes, “You shouldn’t say shit like that.”

“What?” Danny said, “I’m just sayin’!”

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” he tells her, “It’s not like that. Put it out of your head.” Otabek is a mundane (well, sort of) with a mundane family and a mundane career. He’d chosen to go back to his life without the turbulence of magic making it harder and Yuri doesn’t blame him.

And besides, he’d promised to be out of the skater’s hair once this was all over and godsdammit, Yuri is a man of his word.

James clears his throat and Yuri narrows his eyes, immediately suspicious.

“What did you do?” Yuri asked.

“I didn’t really do anything,” James said, “I, er, got curious and I asked Jade what she plans to do about Otabek…”

“’Plans to do’,” Yuri repeated, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“She’s striking his name from the record, right? So, he’s not going to testify.” There’s disapproval there and Yuri glares at James.

“Yeah, so?” Yuri said, “It’s his life –“

“Why not give him the choice?” James asked, “It’s odd. Your interceding on his behalf and behaving as his mouthpiece. It’s not like you. Yuri, if Jade has to run interference then – “

“Godsdammit, James, let it go. It’s none of your concern anymore,” Yuri said, “It’s been decided that I’ll testify instead, and he can go back to…whatever the fuck.”

“I’m just saying, you’d hate it if it were done to you,” James said.

“This isn’t about me,” Yuri snapped, “Did I tell her not to talk to him? _No_. The case is hers, she can do whatever the fuck she wants-“

“Don’t give me that rubbish,” James snorted, “She’s doing it for you. She’s doing it because she knows you care about him.”

“Guys, don’t fight,” Danny sighed, “Please…”

“You don’t know that,” Yuri said, “And you certainly don’t know a damn thing about how I feel.” He drains his glass and slams out of the pub, through a Portal, and back into the solace of his flat.

_I knew I should’ve begged off_, he thought, yanking off his boots and clothes and leaving them in a haphazard pile on the floor. He should’ve expected James to stick his nose in and go poking around even though the case isn’t technically theirs anymore because of his weird compulsion to mother the shit out of Yuri.

A little voice tells him that he did storm off like a teenager and he tells that voice to fuck right off because it was either stay and make the situation so much worse or leave before he could say something he’d really regret.

He collapses into bed after a scalding hot shower, skin flushed angry pink. He’s still a little buzzed and relaxed enough to dose off, but his eyes won’t stay closed. Eventually, he drags his pillow with him to the living room and turns on the TV. There’s a nature program on that annoys him less than the cooking channel, and he dozes off to ethereal images of the sea . . .

_He frowns at the putrid water lapping his ankles, the color dark and made murkier by the eerie red hazard light that wanes in and out. _

_Red fades to black then back to red. _

_He looks up and he feels his heart stop – _

_“I found you,” that smile is stained red and he can’t move fast enough. Each step feels like he’s running in cement and the water is around his knees now. _

_Eric laughs and Yuri’s feet are yanked out from underneath him, sending him crashing face-first into the water. He struggles and coughs as it fills his mouth and climbs up his nostrils, his lungs burning – _

He startles out of the nightmare and goes toppling off the couch, narrowly avoiding smacking his face into the coffee table on the way down and he lands with a low grunt.

_I guess I’ll just lay here_, he thinks absently, _this is fine_.

The TV is still on, and he reaches for the remote, still vaguely unsettled by the nightmare. The details are already starting to fade from his conscious brain, and he wipes his sweaty palms on the rug.

The buzzer goes off again the person on the other end lets their finger sit on the button. Yuri hauls himself off the floor with a grumbling sigh and pads over to the front door to buzz his annoying partner in. He snaps his fingers at the kettle on its electric base, and it starts to quietly boil.

Ambrose’s knock sounds little over a minute later, “You haven’t been answering your phone,” he says when Yuri opens the door. His gaze flickers downwards and his expression twitches in vague exasperation, “You’re also not wearing any trousers.”

“I fell asleep,” Yuri said, rubbing the crust out of his eyes and closing the door when Ambrose steps inside while awkwardly unzipping his jacket. Yuri yawns, “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” Ambrose said, then pulls a fluffy black and grey kitten from within the folds of his jacket. Yuri’s sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process that his field partner smuggled a cat into his building.

“How many do you have in there?” Yuri blurted and Ambrose looks faintly bemused.

“Just the one,” Ambrose said, “Do you want to hold him?”

Yuri immediately holds out his hands and Ambrose delicately hands him over. Bright yellow eyes blink open for just a moment before the kitten closes them again and immediately nuzzles further towards Yuri in search of warmth, and his heart positively melts. 

“His mother was quite large,” Ambrose said, “Around eight kilos. I’d imagine he’ll be the same in a year or two.” There’s a hidden smile in Ambrose’s expression while he watches Yuri cradle the kitten.

“Don’t judge me,” Yuri grumbled, unconsciously turning his body away to shield the kitten – and the way he holds it like a precious thing – from view.

“He needs a home,” Ambrose said, “Our neighbor’s cat had kittens but, I’d imagine they’ll all be very large in a year and she can’t very well house them all.”

Yuri looks down at the kitten still nuzzled up against his chest, and he strokes a finger over the impossibly soft fur between its ears. It would be irresponsible of him to take in a pet when he’s not sure he’ll have a job in a few days’ time but…

“How about this?” Ambrose said, “You put on some trousers and we can go looking for supplies together, yeah?”

His partner already seems to know that Yuri’s leaning towards keeping the kitten, which is a bit embarrassing and he’d be tempted to be contrary and say ‘no’ if it weren’t for the fact that he’s already debilitatingly attached to the furball and it’s only been five minutes.

Trousers on, teeth brushed, and hair…somewhat tamed (since he cut it it’s gained a free spirit) they visit the nearest pet supply shop and do not talk about what happened at the pub last night. Yuri focuses instead on the adorableness of the kitten’s little paws.

“Look at these toe beans,” he coos, “So cute.”

“Have you decided on a name for him?” Ambrose asked later when they’re looking at collars and tags. Yuri looks at the black and storm-cloud gray kitten cuddled up in his arms still, bright yellow eyes narrowed in contentment as Yuri gently strokes the soft fur between his ears.

He’s already decided against a typical Russian name. His last cat had been his grandmother’s after she’d become too sick to take care of Potya properly and he’d basically inherited the responsibility. The devastation when Potya had died had been a significant scar on his teenage years.

“I think I’ll call him Hades,” Yuri said.

Ambrose snorts a laugh, “You would. How about this one?” he holds up an orange collar with a little bell on it and Yuri deems it acceptable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuri: names his cat Hades.  
Ambrose: goes home and names _his_ cat Zeus 'cause...y'know. Solidarity? Plus it's cute. 
> 
> Updates are likely to slow after this. RL is too turbulent right now to give you guys regular quality updates like you deserve. Thank you for all your continued support, each and every one of you. 
> 
> Stay healthy, stay safe, stay hydrated <3


	24. I Am the Patron Saint of Perpetual Saltiness

_October 2024; Cicero Ward Remand Center – Chicago_

Ashlyn sat tall and proud despite being in prison grays, maintaining the air of a dignified and successful CEO. The two Hunters sitting opposite her – Anna with her multi-colored pixie cut and Duke with his beefy arms covered in tattoos – almost look like two problematic juveniles pulled out of detention to converse with their counselor.

“Why those two?” Yuri muttered.

“People tend to underestimate them,” Jade answered sedately.

“Duke looks like he’s got more brawns than brains,” Kim added, “and Anna may look and _sound_ like a ditz, but she ain’t one.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Yuri deadpanned, watching the Huntress blow a bubble with her gum before popping it with a particularly loud smack.

Ashlyn’s expression twitches with annoyance when Anna continues to babble in between loud smacks of her gum.

“So, like, your dad died before you graduated which, like, totally sucks,” Anna says, “I’d be sad-mad too, y’know?”

“Disgruntled,” Duke supplies.

“Bless you,” Anna tells him and he face-palms, “You still became a nurse though, which is totally cool. Mad respect for nurses. Well, the ones that don’t, like, kill people on purpose.” Anna blows another bubble and Ashlyn’s eyebrow twitches when it pops. “And then, like, the clinic you worked at burned down and you got promoted – “

“What is the point of all this?” Ashlyn interrupted. Anna blinked and blew yet another bubble with her gum, smacking loudly when it pops. Yuri realizes that Anna is being incredibly obnoxious _on purpose_.

“I wanna make sure I’ve got all my facts straight, y’know? It’s like…” Anna tilts her head and snaps her fingers, “Duke, what’s the word?”

“Fact checking?” he suggests.

“Nooo,” Anna says, “I mean, like…” she makes a frustrated gesture, “Ugh, whatever. So, like, stuff happens, and you find Dr. Koeman and become besties.”

“Besties?” Ashlyn repeats flatly.

“Well, I guess not besties anymore since he kinda ratted you out,” Anna smacked her gum, “Which is, like, top tier betrayal y’know? Like, what happened to solidarity?” the Huntress pauses, mouthing silently to herself while counting on her fingers, “Did I leave anything out?” she asked, Duke opens his mouth to add his two cents but she keeps going, “Oh wait, there was the whole bit with the ‘trying to inhumanely create a race of super soldiers’ thing because of your underlying daddy issues.”

Ashlyn doesn’t bother to hide just how annoyed she is now, and Yuri is moderately impressed that they were able to get her to crack even this much. Anna guilelessly smacks her gum, blowing a bubble while facing down the former CEO’s glare.

“You think I did _all of this_ for a _man_?” Ashlyn’s voice shakes, her obvious fury and annoyance cumulating into a burst of bitter laughter, “You stupid ignorant girl. You don’t understand anything.”

Anna vapidly blows another bubble while Ashlyn continues to rant about how she did it for her mother who’d waited three days for her husband to come home before finally learning he’d died. “I did it for my friends who’d lost their children within six months of enlistment. I knew there wasn’t really a way to prevent more demons from coming in or stop crime completely. So? Fortify the soldiers. Make them stronger-“

“By…turning them into chimeras?” Duke asked slowly.

Anna squinted, “I don’t get it.”

Ashlyn lets out a frustrated scream.

_Holy shit_, Yuri marveled.

“Well,” Jade said, “I’d say this is their best work yet. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“We should’ve let them take a crack at her sooner,” Kim said, “Would’ve saved us some time.”

“Hm. Maybe,” Jade murmured, “Maybe not.”

One of the prison guards has poked his head into the room to see what all the commotion is about, and Jade gives a sharp knock on the two-way mirror as a signal to the Hunters in the room: ‘we’re done.’ Ashlyn is led out while still practically frothing at the mouth and as soon as she’s gone and the door secure, Anna and Duke emerge from the interview room.

“How’d I do Captain?” Anna asked, indulging in a long stretch like she’d been at it for hours instead of ten minutes or less.

“You get a gold star,” Jade answered, then pulls out stickers for both Anna and Duke.

“You actually had stickers this time,” Duke marvels, staring at his. Anna doesn’t waste any time peeling hers off the slippery paper backing and sticking it to her shirt, proudly planting her fists on her hips and puffing out her chest like a cheesy comicbook superhero, “How do I look?” she asked. Yuri lets out a snort.

“Uh, you look the same just with a sticker,” Duke shrugged.

“Excellent,” Anna narrowed her eyes in satisfaction, “Let’s get some ice cream. You comin’ with, Goldie?”

Gods, if he has to spend anymore time around the effervescent mind-fucking faerie girl he’s going to break out in hives.

“I can’t. I have to get home to Hades.”

He gets confused looks and a lot of silent question marks before Jade clarifies for him, “His cat.” prompting a chorus of, “Ohhh”s.

“Well, that’s lame,” Anna says, smacking her gum, “Would’ve been cooler if you were going home to the actual Lord of the Underworld.”

“_You’re_ lame,” Yuri retorted, “_You’re_ the one dating fucking Georgi of all people. You can’t talk to me about ‘cool’.”

Kim chuckles, “The claws are _out_.”

Anna gapes at him, totally offended, “You’re just mad ‘cause you’re sad and single.”

“At least I have standards,” Yuri snorted.

“Okay,” Duke sighed, “That’s enough.” he physically steers Anna back towards the lobby and the security checkpoint, putting an end to the argument.

“Taking pot shots now, are we?” Jade muttered.

“You’re the one that always says there’s no such thing as fair in a fight,” Yuri retorted, then glances back into the now-empty interview room, “So what happens now?”

“The High Inquisitor will get his own testimony from her,” Jade said, “after that, I expect she’ll go to trial.”

“Fun,” Yuri yawned widely, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Jade gives him a considering look and he tried (and failed) not to get defensive, “What?”

“Go home and get some sleep,” she said, “I expect you’ll need it.”

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” he muttered.

It’s early evening in London when he finally makes it back and he checks the mail on the way up to his flat, expecting an empty box yet again. Instead, there’s an expensive-looking envelope inside and cold dread sits heavy in his stomach when he recognizes the return address in the upper right-hand corner. He suppresses a curse when he flips it over and sees the official wax seal holding the envelope shut.

Absolute terror is the only thing that keeps him from opening it. He’s had enough bad experiences with ominous mail leading to emotionally crippling consequences in the past two weeks to heavily procrastinate opening an official letter from the head honcho’s desk.

He plays with Hades and takes a long luxurious shower. He makes dinner then watches a few episodes of _The Great British Bake Off _while eating dinner. Instead of loading his dishes into the dishwasher he washes all of them by hand before rewarding himself with a hot cup of tea and a few more episodes of _The Great British Bake Off_.

All the while, the envelope burns a metaphorical hole in his kitchen table.

He sits on his couch with his cup long gone cold in his hands, staring sightlessly at the screen while Netflix loads the next episode.

_Alright, fine_, he tells himself, getting up to put his cup in the sink and on the way out of the kitchen he picks up the envelope and finally pops the seal, expecting a short letter of termination and a notice informing him that his Tags have been invalidated.

It’s handwritten in what must be the Director’s legible but blocky script,

> Agent Plisetsky,
> 
> After much deliberation and a lengthy discussion with several of your peers, I have decided to formally reinstate you, granted you undergo a period of probation. At our meeting, I made my thoughts on your previous behavior quite clear and I am expecting better and greater things from you in the future Agent.
> 
> Do not disappoint me.
> 
> Dir. Gilwen D. Botterill, NCPD

He re-reads the letter twice to make sure he’s not hallucinating. Sure enough, the piece of paper behind it outlines the terms of his probation for the next eight months, stating that if he incurs a Class 3 violation or higher, or gets a demerit he’ll be immediately and permanently suspended.

His relief quickly sours though, when he remembers that tomorrow is one of the deadliest nights of the year and this letter could’ve easily informed him of his immediate termination if the world wasn’t going to absolute shit. He’s suddenly exhausted while reaching for his phone to check if HR has already jumped on making arrangements for a physical and a reassessment for his return to duty and – ah yes, there they are. One to give him the details of his appointment with occupational health tomorrow morning and the second to stress the mandatoryness of his reassessment.

Yuri sleeps fitfully and wakes up still exhausted the next morning for his appointment scheduled at the clinic all the way out in Epsom. He slurps despondently at an obnoxiously strong cup of coffee while he prepares Hades’ automatic feeder, litter box, water bowl, and toys.

There are six other Exorcists waiting to be seen when he shows up, so he gets to stand in the corner like an awkward human-shaped houseplant and fill out the forms.

It’s tedious going through and checking all the boxes to confirm that the Agency and the health department both have the correct information. He pauses at the part that asks him to confirm or amend his list of emergency contacts before shakily striking out his grandfather’s name and replacing it with Ambrose’s.

A nurse calls him back and directs him into a room where she hands him a pair of shorts so light it feels like he’s holding air. “Go ahead and change. I’ll step out for a moment and when you’re ready we’ll get started.”

She gets his vitals, records his weight and BMI before measuring his height. She tests his hearing and then his vision before taking him back to the first room, “The doctor will be in shortly. You can go ahead and put your clothes back on.”

Thank gods because he’s fucking freezing.

He’s just about finished yanking his shirt back on when there’s a knock on the door and a woman in a white coat shows herself in, “Agent Plisetsky?”

“Unfortunately,” Yuri muttered.

“Dr. Popovich, I’ll be your provider for today,” she said, “Thank you for your patience.”

“Uh, sure.” He moves out of the way and sits on the bed while she goes over to the sink to wash her hands. He can see the faintest resemblance to Georgi in the somber downturn of her mouth and the darkness of her hair but keeps his comments to himself.

“Any difficulty walking or weakness in one leg more than the other?” she asked him.

“Not really,” he said.

“Any vision changes?” she asked, “Dark spots, blurrier in one eye, flashing lights or auras?”

“No.”

“Good. Have you been feeling more fatigued than normal, recently? Any unusual changes to your appetite?”

“Fatigue’s not new,” he answered, “I mean, I’m always fucking tired. And I just eat when I get a chance.”

“I see,” she said, “May I?” she holds out her hands, and he lets her grasp both of his wrists with cool clinical fingers. He can distantly feel her magic probe at his joints, her touch is light and minimally invasive…until she reaches his head. He cringes when he feels an insistent prod at his skull, and she murmurs a low apology before withdrawing her hands, “I don’t see any abnormalities. You’re recovering fairly well from your recent procedures, but I have concerns.”

“Uh…okay?” he frowned.

“You’re grossly underweight for your height,” she continued, “and while the neurological changes have improved, like you said, I think you’ll need to follow up with a specialist. That kind of healing after such an invasive procedure takes the kind of toll that requires months for a complete recovery. At this point, I’m reluctant to clear you for full duty until your BMI improves and a neurologist has evaluated you”

“Can’t I go back to work and follow up with a specialist later?” he asked, “I mean, I don’t exactly have the financial freedom to take extended leave.”

_So much for smooth sailing_, he thinks bitterly. How does one explain to a fucking aristocrat that he barely has any savings to keep living for the next two weeks if he doesn’t start pulling in a paycheck, like, today? Georgi, at least, could sort of understand Yuri’s financial woes after being practically disowned but this woman had most likely wanted for nothing her entire life being from an affluent witch family of fucking elite doctors.

“Agent,” she begins tiredly.

“Please,” he interrupted, hating the note of desperation in his voice.

She sighs and sits up, “Alright. How about a compromise? I’ll clear you for _modified_ duty for now if you agree to follow up every four to six weeks with a specialist and a regular physician. Deal?”

“Deal,” he agreed.

It’s a miracle he manages to make it out of the clinic, his knees are so weak with relief. His reassessment isn’t for another hour yet and he takes the opportunity to get a coffee and a late breakfast before he shows up to headquarters to check in.

“Please have a seat,” the representative at the desk points to the waiting area where there are three other people waiting. One of them looks too young to be here, dressed in civilian clothing and looking noticeably anxious.

_Kid’s gonna freeze to death_, he notes, seeing the very visible lack of protective layers. If she’s here to take the SPA, she won’t make it past the first part of the exam in plain jeans and a hoodie.

He gets open stares as he takes a seat, his Tags especially conspicuous in a room with obviously new recruits. He doesn’t offer words of wisdom or advice to the examinees since it could be construed as cheating with the testing administration representative sitting right there. And he can tell they’ve thought to kill off any hope of said examinees getting help from a veteran by calling him up first.

The next room is empty with a Transportation Circle in the middle of the floor. When the light fades, he’s standing in a familiar hangar about the size of a football field with plain concrete walls. It’s not an obstacle course this time, but a maze and he sucks at his teeth with an exasperated noise. Craning his neck back, it doesn’t look like he can even attempt to go over it.

“Ah, godsdammit,” he groans aloud.

There’s no countdown or horn or anything to tell him when he can start so he just rolls his shoulders and takes the first step into the maze.

Upon closure inspection, the walls are completely smooth. Trying to scale them would definitely prove to be an absolute failure.

_Where are all the enemies?_ he wonders, _There’s supposed to be –_

He sees the movement in his peripheral vision and flinches to avoid it just in time. The golem’s wooden arms clack loudly as they clamp down solidly on thin air.

“Found them,” he muttered aloud. His use of the aether is restricted while in the testing site, so he makes his own weapon from plasma and cuts down every golem he meets at the knees to keep them from giving chase or getting in his way. There are too many corners and walls for him to get pinned against, especially as he gets further into the maze and the golems attack in larger groups.

Yuri takes a wrong turn and ends up facing down what has to be a militia of fifty wooden dummies or more. They all turn towards him at once and they _charge_.

“Gods!” he kicks, “Fucking!” he slashes, “Dammit!” he rolls and breaks into a run.

He knows he’s on a time limit and every where he turns or looks, he’s surrounded by walls that scrape the ceiling. His legs are burning, and his lungs are crying out for mercy. Sweat pours down his back and soaks his collar. He can feel his hair sticking to his skin from where it’d come loose from the stubby ponytail he’d put it in. Behind him is the thunderous clack of hundreds of wooden feet on concrete and he grits his teeth.

_Fine_.

He stops running.

He slows to a jog then to a walk, taking deep breaths in through his nose to calm his breathing. He can hear the horde gaining on him and he’s still slightly jerky with adrenaline when he thinks, _Fuck it_.

The golems never touch him, and he never looks back. Magic leaps off his skin in sparks and errant blue threads of lightning. Electricity glances off the concrete walls, and arcs towards the floor. The web of highly charged static zaps anything unfortunate enough to get close. The golems haven’t been imbued with enough intelligence to learn when they should avoid close combat; they keep trying to grab him and inevitably crack or catch fire from the high voltage.

A cheerful chime echoes throughout the maze when he finds the exit.

“Fucking finally,” he sighs and steps into the Transportation Circle.

He hears the chaos of the EBHQ lobby before he sees it. The press of people coming into focus as the light fades out. Nobody pays any attention to him standing there in his sweat-soaked clothes and he hastily opens a Portal back to his flat.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asked. James is on the floor playing with Hades using the brightly colored cat teaser.

“I, er, assume everything went well?” James asked, eying Yuri with obvious concern.

“You hungry?” Ambrose poked his head out of the kitchen, wearing the apron that Yuri never uses and bright pink elbow-length rubber gloves that Yuri most definitely doesn’t own, “Z sent some leftovers.”

“What _the fuck_ is going on?” Yuri asked, then pauses and sniffs, “And what’s that smell?”

“Your formal reinstatement was put through his morning,” James said.

“And you weren’t answering your phone,” Danny adds, poking her head out of his bedroom.

“It was put through yesterday, actually,” Yuri said, “Why are you in my room?”

“Putting your laundry away,” Danny answered.

Yuri feels his eye twitch. The flat is the cleanest it’s been in weeks and it smells like a fucking Martha Stewart catalogue. His kitchen table has been magically expanded to sit four instead of just two and someone has pulled down the nice dishes from the top cabinet that he hasn’t touched since he bought them four years ago.

“Fuck it,” he declares, “I’m going to take a shower.”

He kicks Danny out of his room and shuts the door, locking it for good measure (even though it won’t do much good against a fellow Warlock). His bedroom even looks like a Martha Stewart catalogue; the bed neatly made with freshly laundered bedclothes, the floor swept, and that pile of laundry that had been steadily growing more and more sentient is completely gone. The bathroom is practically sparkling and smells strongly of cleaning products. He feels his eye twitch again and knows to fix the blame squarely on Ambrose. Knowing his partner, he’d shanghaied the other two into making the place livable though he knows damn well Yuri is capable of cleaning his own house. He grumbles whilst turning up the temperature of the water to practically scalding and giving himself a cursory scrub.

“’Putting laundry away’ my lily-white ass,” Yuri grouched whilst looking through three different drawers for his pajamas. He finds a sleep shirt and a set of pants that definitely don’t match, and when he steps out of his room his teammates are still there but Danny’s now bickering with Ambrose in the kitchen and James is still planted on the floor playing with Hades.

“You’ll have to change again come sunset,” James reminded him.

“Fuck off,” Yuri grumbled, “If I wanna fight demons in my pajamas, then I’ll fucking fight demons in my pajamas.”

“Please don’t fight demons in your pajamas,” James said, then cleared his throat, “I, um, I wanted to apologize.” Yuri fixes him with a deadpan stare, just waiting (and it’s not everyday you get to see a vampire squirm). “I was out of line, the other night. It wasn’t my place to comment on your personal business and I should’ve kept my thoughts to myself.”

“Apology accepted,” Yuri said, “And, I’m…sorry for snapping. I’m, um, still working on the temperament thing.”

“Apology accepted,” James parroted, carefully getting to his feet with Hades clinging to his jeans, “Are we cool?” he extends his fist.

“Yeah, we’re cool,” Yuri sighed, bumping knuckles with his Captain, “Hades, no.” he plucks the kitten off James’s leg and puts him on his shoulder. “Next time I’d like some fucking _warning_ before my flat is invaded.”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Ambrose countered, pointedly peeling off the household rubber gloves with loud rubbery ‘thwacks’, “You should be grateful.”

“My flat smells like Martha Stewart and an Ikea catalogue had a farty baby,” Yuri argued.

“You don’t like it?” Danny said, “I thought it would make the place more…homey.” She looks so crestfallen that the apology is on Yuri’s tongue in less than a second.

“It’s fine,” he blurts, “Really. It’ll just…take some getting used to.” _Please don’t start crying_. He can’t handle anymore tears. Not his own, and especially not hers.

Hades chooses that moment to dig his sharp kitten claws into Yuri’s shoulder through the shirt and Yuri suppresses a curse while carefully detaching the cat, “Alright you little gremlin. Here.” he sets Hades down to roam.

“Dinner should be ready…about now, actually,” Ambrose said, peeking in the oven.

It’s too early to have dinner, going by the clock, but the sun is due to set very soon and they’re in for a long grueling night. It’s not exactly the ideal way for him to return to work, but it’s better than sitting on his hands while his compatriots are out keeping the streets safe (well, as safe as they could be on Halloween night).

Ambrose takes the reheated casserole out of the oven and places it in the center of Yuri’s tiny table. James takes it upon himself to serve everyone while Ambrose takes off the borrowed apron and hangs it on a hook in the kitchen.

And it’s…nice having dinner like this. Usually evening meals with the team are spent in the office, sitting at their desks or sprawled on the floor with take away boxes and disposable utensils. Yuri can’t actually remember the last time he had a meal sitting at this table.

Dinner sits warm and comforting in his stomach while he gets changed out of his pajamas. He’s absolutely mourning the laziness and easy comfort while yanking on a pair of reinforced leggings and shoving his upper body into a nanofiber t-shirt.

“Here,” Danny conjures a bandana, “for your hair.”

“Thanks.” He takes it and smooths his bangs back from his forehead before tying the bandana down to keep all of his hair firmly out of his face.

“Now we match!” Danny said cheerfully, attempting to sling an arm over his shoulders (and failing because she’s too short).

“Ready?” James asked.

“Not really, but let’s get it over with,” Yuri grumbled, shrugging into his department issued jacket.

The sun finally slips behind the horizon and the air is immediately taught with dreaded anticipation. Yuri can hear sirens in the distance and the wail of an ambulance. They split into their usual pairs with the unspoken agreement to meet up at their usual rendezvous point.

“Remember the Three Don’ts!” James shouts at his back.

“Yes, dad!” Yuri replies with an eyeroll, “What does he think I am, an amateur?”

“I think he knows I’m eighty-percent of your impulse control,” Ambrose says sedately.

“Fuck off.”

Still, he recites the rules (better known as the Three Don’ts for Bookies) in his head: _Don’t_ be a hero. _Don’t_ get lost. _Don’t_ get killed. He’s technically not qualified or trained to fight demons but he’s studied demonology and he knows how to get out of a pinch on nights like this.

It still fucking sucks.

“I hate this,” Yuri groaned when they’re three blocks into their patrol.

“And here I thought you actually enjoyed my company,” Ambrose deadpanned, “I’m heartbroken, Yuri.”

“Oh, shut up,” Yuri grumbled and side-eyes a group of mundanes outside of a pub. All of them are dressed up in cheap costumes that are definitely not built to keep out the late October chill. It absolutely baffles him that humans think of this night as a night of partying and free candy and dressing up, completely unaware that they’re offering themselves up as free meat to all the monsters they like to pretend aren’t real. Yuri’s eyes slide from the group of tipsy mundanes to the vampire eyeing up one of the males and gives a sharp minute shake of the head in warning when they make eye-contact.

_Hunt another night_.

The smell of fresh blood on a vampire is demon-bait on Halloween night. Yuri still gets a resentful look as the fanger slinks off to pout and hide. 

“Hopefully, that’ll be the most action we’ll see,” Ambrose muttered, just as there’s a metallic crash and a guttural rattling hiss from the alleyway to their left.

“Great, you fuckin’ jinxed us,” Yuri hissed, straining his eyes to see what they’re up against. It’s likely that, whatever it is, has already scented him and the allure of a treat like Yuri is strong enough to override the potential half-demon threat next to him. Ambrose gives the air a brief sniff – Yuri catches a brief glimpse of the feral orange corona surrounding the blown-out black of his partner’s dilated pupils – before murmuring, “A flesh eater.”

More specifically it’s a ragnark demon, attempting to prowl out of the shadows and get at the tasty blonde treat standing at the mouth of the alley. The sticky webbed salamander feet on the ends of its six spindly legs are proving to be a hindrance instead of an asset. It lets out a frustrated hissing-squeak as it struggles to escape from the pile of slimy rubbish clogging the alleyway.

This is the part where they trap the demon in a barrier and send up a flare for HUNTER but the fact that they haven’t seen any other Exorcists in their quadrant yet is a bad sign.

“Hm, wonder if any of that stuff is flammable,” Yuri muses.

“Yuri no- “

He flicks his fingers, a subtle but potent spark arcing beautifully through the air and the ragnark lets out an angry squeal as it’s immediately engulfed in flame. Ambrose lets out an exasperated sigh and ushers him along before they can attract any unnecessary attention, “Why are you like this? Barely reinstated for six hours and you’re already causing trouble – ”

“Love you too,” Yuri smacks a loud air kiss in Ambrose’s direction and his poor partner looks like he’s filled with so much regret.

He takes it back. Maybe tonight won’t suck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, while editing this: [realizes how many times I've called Yuri a treat in a short amount of time] He a snacc. 
> 
> Is it just me or does it feel like forever since I've updated? (Even tho it's only been 3 weeks...)
> 
> So, uh, this chapter wasn't in my original outline. I have the final chapter count nailed down now (I think...I _hope_.)
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated! <3


	25. Improvisatory Screaming

_February 2025; Toronto_

“Can I give you a few notes?” Oliver asked.

“Sure,” Otabek answered and braced himself for the inevitable slaughter evident by Oliver’s deceptively mild tone. Lauren lingers just within earshot, her bright red insulated coat visible in Otabek’s periphery, waiting to give Otabek her own input on his technique and form, but only after Oliver rips his presentation to absolute shreds.

“What are you feeling?” Oliver asked.

Otabek blinked, caught off guard by the question. He’s worked with Oliver several times before when he needs help ironing out ideas, but this is new.

“Like, right _now?_” Otabek asked slowly, “Or in general?”

“When you’re skating,” Oliver clarified exasperatedly, “What. Are. You. Feeling?” he punctuates each word with a stab of his toepick into the ice. “I get that you want to nail this program technically, but I feel like I’m watching the Tin Man. No, wait, scratch that. The Tin Man would emote better.”

Well, that’s hurtful.

“The fact that you can’t answer that question has me concerned,” Oliver sang. Otabek opens his mouth, a lame not-answer on his tongue but Oliver railroads through, “To be perfectly honest, I don’t understand why you chose this music when I see no connection between you and it when you’re doing the routine. I want to see a _connection_, Otabek. You know?”

“Yeah.”

Oliver sighs, “We’ll keep working on it.” He glances at Lauren, “He’s all yours.” The choreographer pushes off, making for the exit.

Lauren doesn’t go in right away which has Otabek bracing for another volley of criticism. Maybe his Charlotte spiral was sloppy, or she doesn’t think the combo will work well.

“You seem distracted,” she says instead.

“I’m just worried about next season is all,” he replied. He knows how lame it sounds even before he opens his mouth and he can tell Lauren isn’t entirely buying it. Sure, it’s another Olympic season and those are always stressful…even more so when you’re making your long-awaited comeback after taking a year off to recover from a traumatic event. God, thinking about the impending media circus gives him a headache.

“Take the rest of the day off.”

He barely opens his mouth to protest and she’s holding up a hand to stop it in its tracks, “I like the program,” she says, “I think it has potential. But you’re not focused. I don’t know where your head is today, but it’s not in this rink. So,” she sighs, “I want you to go home. I want you to rest. And then I want you to think about what Oliver said.” She narrows her eyes in warning, “And that _does not_ mean come back here after hours. Am I understood?”

“Yes, coach,” he mumbles. He knows she’ll make good on her threat to call his mom and the last thing he wants is to worry her more after last year’s mess.

It feels so strange to be walking home when there’s still plenty of daylight, and once he’s sequestered in the silence of his apartment it’s far too easy for his thoughts to wander away from him. He tries staying busy with some cool down exercises on the mat in his living room while watching some psychological thriller on Netflix.

_I wonder if Yuri likes this show._

His brain has been doing _that_ an awful lot.

He’d tried calling him just to see how he’s been doing since getting out of the hospital, but the number’s out of service. He still has Ambrose’s contact information in his phone in case of an emergency, but…this isn’t exactly an emergency is it? And even if he did call what would he even say? ‘Sorry to interrupt your very busy lives, but I just wanted to ask for Yuri’s new number?’ Ugh. Talk about cringe.

So, he doesn’t call.

Tomorrow’s supposed to be an active rest day for him. No ice time or rink obligations.

He should put on his pajamas, sit on his couch, and actively think about Oliver’s notes. Perhaps while enjoying that ice cream he’s got stashed in the back of his freezer.

He should stay inside when he knows how much more dangerous the bigger cities become at night.

But he doesn’t want to spend more time with his thoughts (he’s had plenty enough of that) and there’s an offer for a gig burning a hole in his inbox.

Mat   
  
I'm in.

His phone almost immediately dings with a response.

Mat   
  
I was just about to beg you lol

He hauls himself off his exercise mat with a low grunt to shower and get changed. There’s plenty of time for him to make dinner before the club opens and he already has some idea of what set he wants to do.

When he arrives, he can tell that something is different, but he can’t put his finger on it. The bouncer manning the staff entrance is the same, the lights are the same, and he recognizes most of the staff behind the bar. He hikes his backpack a little higher over his shoulder and tries to ignore the feeling that something is off.

There’s already music playing over the sound system and he finds Mateo by the stage in the far corner of the club, untangling wires and cables in between gesticulating to a tall well-dressed man wearing a Rolex.

“Ay! Otabek! My man!” Mateo spreads his arms wide in greeting, nearly smacking himself in the face with the power cord in his hand, “You’re early!”

“I didn’t want to risk it with Friday night traffic ‘n all,” Otabek answered.

“Coolbeans, coolbeans. Otabek, this is Chris. He owns the club. Chris, this is Otabek,” Mateo gestures to the aforementioned Rolex-man with curly honey blonde hair that fades into dark hair at his nape.

“Charmed,” Chris drawled, extending his hand and Otabek takes it. He registers how lukewarm – almost cool – Chris’s hand is and the brief flash of fang when the club owner accidentally smiles just a little too wide.

_Vampire_.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Otabek replied politely.

“I’m sure you’ll entertain my guests well,” Chris said, withdrawing his hand, “From what Mateo tells me, you have godly ears.”

Otabek feels the embarrassed flush crawl up his neck and he looks away, “Mat likes to exaggerate.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Chris said silkily, “I think he has impeccable taste. It’s why I made him manager after all.”

“Aw, shucks,” Mateo batted his eyelashes, “You flatter me.”

“Party hard, gentlemen,” Chris winked before meandering over to the bar to chat with the staff and Otabek breathes a faint sigh.

“You could’ve warned me that the owner would be here,” Otabek says quietly, shrugging off his backpack then his jacket. He’s not sure what he would’ve done if he’d known. Maybe he would’ve prepared a set that didn’t exemplify how he felt like a side character in his own narrative. Maybe he would’ve stayed home and eaten his ice cream.

And why the hell was a vampire running a mundane club anyway?

“It was a surprise to me too, trust me,” Mat replied, “He said he’d be in town, he just didn’t tell me _when_.” Then Mateo lowers his voice even more, “If you’re looking to get tail tonight, I’d come back another time. There’s no luck whenever he’s around.” Otabek gave him a sidelong admonishing look and Mat holds up his hands, “I’m just sayin’.”

Otabek goes through the motions of a sound check and getting set up when he’s left alone. He pulls his laptop out of its protective sleeve but doesn’t power it on just yet.

He meanders over to the bar and Harper gives him a shark-like grin, “What’ll it be hot stuff?” her neon pink hair looks like it’s on fire underneath the LED lights.

“Nothing alcoholic,” he told her, “I gotta drive home later.”

The bartender clicks her tongue in disappointment, “Well, that’s no fun. One mocktail it is good sir.” She straightens and starts pulling together ingredients. Patrons are trickling in in a steady stream and the volume on the speakers increases until the sound vibrates through his shoes. Harper sets his drink down in front of him and he reaches for his wallet, “Put that shit away before Mat sees,” she scolds, swatting at him, “If he thinks I made you pay for your drink he’ll have my ovaries.”

Otabek snorts, “I’d like to see him try.”

Harper grins, “You’re our star for tonight, Ota. Stars don’t have to pay for their old lady mocktails.” She stalks off to serve a rapidly growing line of customers and Otabek takes the opportunity to slip a tip for her anyway. And if there happens to be enough to cover the drink, well, that’s none of Mat’s business is it? He savors the fruity mocktail while the dance floor fills up with eager clubgoers before slinking off to his corner, sticking close to the wall to avoid the writhing crowd.

“I am curious,” a voice says in his ear and Otabek freezes. Chris is leaning casually against the wall behind him, carefully balancing a glass of something that looks too thick and dark to be wine between his fingers. Otabek suppresses a horrified shiver. With the lights of the dance floor turned down and the crowd wrapped up in dancing to the pre-set music, nobody’s paying attention to how the owner’s somewhat dropped his human façade. “I’ve met many a mixed breed in my time, but you don’t quite smell like them.”

“I don’t – I’m not – I’m human,” Otabek stuttered and Chris arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t _smell_ like a human,” Chris emphasized.

“It’s…a long story,” Otabek finally answered.

“I’ve got time,” Chris replied, interest obviously piqued, but his gaze flicks to the DJ table, “Later. The show must go on, yes?”

He’d thought he’d done a somewhat decent job of hiding the fact that he’d recognized what Chris was within seconds of shaking his hand. And while Chris seems like he’s motivated purely by benign curiosity, Otabek is still a bit wary. Still, what harm could talking to him actually do?

The first contact he’s had with the supernatural since October somehow feels like an acknowledgement.

_Not everyone is as nice as I am, Altin_.

_I know_, he tells imaginary Yuri, _but I can’t keep pretending forever, right?_

He’s been trying to go back to his old life. Back to his old therapist, his old apartment, and pretend that he hadn’t learned about magic. That a madman never cut him open and his body is irrevocably changed. Controlling his new strength is still a work in progress and sleeping feels more like a luxury now than a necessity. Every time he talks to his family, he feels like he’s sitting on a throne of lies.

He hops up behind the DJ table and hangs his headphones around his neck so he can hear the music without the reverb if he wants, but he’s listened to this set so many times it’s a wonder he isn’t absolutely sick of it.

The bass vibrates through the soles of his feet as the beat drops and satisfaction swells in his chest at the positive reception sweeping through the crowded dance floor. He breathes through the set and relaxes for the first time since Halloween.

Chris is sitting at the bar when he’s finished with the set, chatting amiably with Harper while sipping on a disturbingly colorful cocktail that’s probably one of the bartender’s experiments.

“Otabek!” the vampire raises his glass in greeting, welcoming him like an old friend, “Would you like one? It’s quite delicious.”

“Uh, I’ll have to pass. I’m driving,” Otabek said.

“Another mocktail it is!” Harper announced.

“Pity,” Chris tutted, “You’re missing out.”

“The last time I tried one of Harper’s experiments I had a hangover for a week,” Otabek said, “I hope your liver’s made of iron.”

“I haven’t been wasted in years,” Chris said airily before lowering his voice as he leaned in conspiratorially, “At least, not off of _mundane_ booze.”

Harper sets a more mildly colored concoction down in front of Otabek with an, “Enjoy.” and a pointed stink eye for his earlier tip. He blinks guilelessly at her before picking up the glass and taking a sip.

“Tell me, then, the story of one talented disk jockey and how human-not human he is,” Chris prompted, half draped against the bar.

“Uh, well,” Otabek hedged, “It’s…kind of a weird story.”

“Weird is better than boring,” Chris said.

And so, the longest five months of Otabek’s life – from waking up in the hospital in June to Yuri’s unprompted arrival and indefinite stay in August, to the final culmination in a top secret lab in October – is condensed into nearly an hour’s worth of half-harried rambling. Chris somehow remains invested despite Otabek’s lackluster storytelling.

“I went home the next day,” Otabek finished, strangely exhausted. He can’t remember the last time he talked this much in one sitting. “And…now I’m here.”

“Eh, I’ve heard weirder,” is Chris’s verdict, “but, I definitely found it interesting. Checked off three of the big boxes: romance, action, and existential crises.” Chris finishes his cocktail and sets the empty glass on the bar, “And now you’re at a crossroads.”

“I guess…?” Otabek grimaced. Is it a crossroads if you’ve already got a sort of plan for the future, no matter how dismal and potentially depressing it may be? His triumphant comeback will also be his swansong. In the human world he’s pushing thirty and nobody would’ve blamed him if he had medically retired last year, when the reality of it is, he’s never been physically stronger. After he retires…well, he did promise his parents he’d finish university.

“You don’t have to figure it out now,” Chris said, “You’ve got some time.”

“Isn’t my lifespan, like, a fruit fly’s compared to yours?”

“You’re not human, remember?” Chris reminded him mildly, “For all you know, you’ll be around for as long as I will be. Maybe even longer.”

“That…sounds depressing,” Otabek says honestly and Chris bursts into laughter, bringing up a hand to cover his mouth before anybody else catches a glimpse of his pearly white fangs.

“Oh my,” Chris sniffled, sobering, “It’s not so bad when you find something you’re passionate about.” The vampire lightly wipes at his eyes with his thumb, “Or some_one_.”

Otabek stares, totally nonplussed, and Chris rolls his eyes, “I’m talking about your Yuri, Otabek. Your prickly knight in shining yoga pants. The brave and beautiful Warlock who saved you.”

He squinted at the vampire, “I feel like you’re blowing this out of proportion.” Chris makes it sound like the fairy tale it very much was not. Sure, there were good moments in between the bickering and the paranoia and the major adjustment to Otabek’s personal paradigm brought on by learning about a whole community living under the mundane world’s nose. A community with a separate government and a complex culture and history. It was like discovering you’d been looking at the wrong map of the world your entire life and all of a sudden there’s an entire continent of places to see and interesting people to meet.

“I’m stating the obvious,” Chris sniffed, “I may not have known you for very long but even I can tell you’ve got it bad.”

_Even though it’s been months?_ he thinks.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Chris tutted, “Love is a spectacular thing.”

Otabek nearly choked on his next inhale, “’Love’? No no no, we barely know each other-“

“Clearly you know him enough to have feelings for him, whether positive or negative. I don’t know why humans insist on love being dependent on time when it’s about connection. It’s about people!” Chris gesticulated with his refilled glass and nearly sloshes his cosmopolitan all over the glass-and-LED bar top.

Otabek looks into his empty glass and sort of wishes that it hadn’t been a mocktail. Maybe this conversation wouldn’t be near as painful with a little bit of alcohol in his system.

“You sure you’re not drunk?” he asked the club owner.

“Unfortunately, I am still stone cold sober,” Chris answered, “Not without lack of trying of course.” The vampire winks and takes a long sip from his glass.

“Right,” Otabek muttered. Chris gives him a long considering look, lips pursed and eyes narrowed in thought, before he reaches for his wallet. He spends a minute thumbing through whatever he’s got stored in it before finally pulling a slim business card out.

“I’m not sure if they’re still in practice,” Chris said, “but try giving them a call. You clearly need someone to talk to who isn’t a mundane, and unfortunately, I have too many businesses to run and far too many issues of my own to help you with yours.”

Otabek’s not sure whether to be offended or grateful that Chris just handed him the contact information for a psychiatric clinic.

“I’ll have Mateo give you my number if you’re interested in doing shoes at my other venues,” Chris added, “I quite enjoyed what I heard tonight.”

“Thanks…? I guess,” Otabek pockets the card.

“No. My thanks to you and your godly ears,” Chris smiles slyly. Otabek’s guts squirm with embarrassment, sincerely hoping that Mat hasn’t been going around saying that to everyone. His ears are perfectly average, thank you very much.

He doesn’t go straight to bed when he finally makes it home. He showers to rinse off the smell of the club and changes into his pajamas before zoning out on his couch, still processing the bizarre night he just had. He has the strangest feeling it won’t be the last time he sees the vampire, whether Otabek takes him up on his offer or not.

Otabek’s starting to think that the ‘ancient and wise’ trope doesn’t really apply to vampires in real life. But he still has to admit that Chris had – at best – a couple nuggets of relevant advice.

_When it comes down to it_, he thinks, _they’re really just people aren’t they?_

People with fangs that drink blood and live forever, but people, nonetheless.

_You’ll be around as long as me. Maybe even longer. _

He should’ve asked Chris how one copes with stagnating while the world moves on without you. How you go on living when the people you meet and grow to care for age and eventually die. How you stay connected to a world that’s ultimately forgotten about you.

He sends Oliver a text and tries to get some sleep.

It’s just past dawn when his body decides it’s had enough of being stationary and with nothing else to do besides staring at the wall and thinking his thoughts, he goes for a run (only because Lauren will skin him alive if he goes up at the rink on a rest day). So, he runs and runs and runs and he barely feels the sting of exertion. His muscles aren’t cooking under his skin and he’s barely broken a sweat.

The ding of a notification interrupts his playlist and he slows to a walk to check his messages.

Oliver   
  
I have an open slot tomorrow from 3-4p. Don't be late.

The ‘don’t waste my time’ is implied. He sighs and types a confirmation before resuming his run.

He arrives at the rink the next morning before Lauren and starts his warm-up. The scratch of his skates on the ice is loud in the empty rink and he breathes in the cool air, holding it in his lungs as his momentum carries him across the ice.

“Good morning,” Lauren greets him, her thermos full of breakfast tea steaming.

“Morning,” he replied, coming to a scratching stop. She pauses to take her hard guards off then steps onto the ice with her thermos cupped in her gloved hands.

“Show me the free again,” she prompted, “from the beginning.”

Without the music he focuses entirely on the technical elements of the program. Lauren’s critical eye doesn’t leave him for a second, all the way up to the moment he stops in the final pose. Like he’d expected at last practice, she starts picking apart his transitions first then revising the elements to iron out the flow of the program while maximizing his points.

The next few hours are spent working on nailing the new flow of the program and re-learning the revised elements and Oliver arrives when Otabek is in the middle of a run through.

“So, the Tin Man realized he had a heart all along,” Oliver drawled and Otabek gives him a withering look. “I can tell you’re still holding back a little. Which is fine. I like what I’m seeing so far. Do it again, but with the music.”

He’ll take that as progress.

Of course, any smidgen of good feelings gathered from Oliver’s approval is squashed out of him when his coach and choreographer both put him through his paces. His fortified body is aching in a way that a run around the downtown area couldn’t achieve and he remembers why he doesn’t often bring Oliver onto his projects.

“Better!” Oliver clapped and Otabek lets his arms go slack at his sides. “I believe my work here is done,” the choreographer announced, “It’s all you from here, Mr. Altin.”

“Thanks, Oliver,” Otabek said and the older skater bows.

Otabek sighs and takes the first breather he’s had in hours. He stands at the barrier, scrolling through his Twitter feed and rolling his eyes when he sees that JJ’s fans have managed to start another flame war.

“Any ideas on what you’re going to do for the short?” Lauren asked.

“I, um, I’m still working on it,” Otabek straightens and recaps his hydroflask.

“Can I ask what changed?” Lauren asked, and he stares at her, “Don’t give me that look, Otabek. We’ve been working together for, what, four years now? Even I can tell this season is different for you. Not in a bad way though. I’m not saying I didn’t expect things to change after what happened but…”

“I’m retiring,” he blurted and it’s her turn to give him a nonplussed stare. He grimaces, knowing he totally blindsided her.

“Well,” she begins slowly, “I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Honestly, I’m surprised you came back at all. Even now, Otabek, I can tell you’re not doing…great. Better, definitely. Great? Not really.”

He frowns, looking down at where he’s got his toe pick in the ice. Again, when did he become so transparent? Or, maybe it’s not that he’s so transparent, but that Lauren knows him too well.

“I owe it to myself,” he said finally. _I have to know that they didn’t take this too_.

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Otabek,” Lauren said, “It’s your career, so it’s your decision. You’re an adult.” she paused, “Have you told anyone else yet?”

He shakes his head and his coach doesn’t have to say a word for him to know that she understands. As expected, telling her was the easiest. Telling his family with a bit harder but JJ…he’s not entirely sure JJ will understand.

“You’re coming out of the camel spin too early,” Lauren said, business as usual, “It’s what’s throwing off your timing into the triple-double-quad combo. Try it again.”

He can’t remember the last time his thighs hurt this much.

The next day JJ arrives home from Seoul as effervescent as ever despite the thirteen-hour flight and the tedious slog through customs. Otabek suspects JJ’s borderline manic cheerfulness has to do with a great deal of caffeine.

“I brought presents!” JJ announced, his voice echoing across the rink.

“Shouldn’t you be at home?” Otabek asked, coming to a scratching stop and leaning on the boards, “Resting?”

“Can’t sleep,” JJ chirped before taking a prolonged sip from the venti caffeinated monstrosity in his hand.

“How many is that?” Otabek nodded to said caffeinated monstrosity.

“Um…I think my fourth?” JJ squinted, “I lost count.”

Otabek stares, mildly concerned for his friend.

“Leroy!” Lauren barked from where she’s helping up one of the juniors, “Stop distracting my skaters and go home before I call your wife!”

The blood drains comically from JJ’s face but he still offers Lauren the smile he usually puts on for the press, finger guns and all, “But I brought you a souvenir.”

Lauren is about as impressed by the crane machine plushie as Otabek is by the K-pop t-shirt that JJ wrestles him into.

“Why?” Otabek asked, looking between the printed image of nine colorfully dressed women and his friend.

“So, we can match!” JJ brandishes another t-shirt in his own size and Otabek sighed.

“Thanks,” he muttered. It’s the thought that counts right?

“Leroy,” Lauren warned.

“Okay okay, I’m going I’m going,” JJ held up his hands in surrender, “See you tomorrow.”

Otabek shrugs out of the t-shirt when JJ’s gone, neatly folding it and setting next to the Hydroflask.

“You’ll have to tell him eventually,” she reminds him.

“I know,” he lamented.

“Don’t put it off for too long,” she warned him, “Now. From the top this time. Hopefully _without_ any more interruptions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Otabek's style is a 80/20 mixture of [Apashe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Rf56TeiEBs) and [Black Tiger Sex Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2PTiKDNEKWI). Apashe frequently samples classical pieces and Black Tiger Sex Machine uses interesting sound effects and samples. If you guys want to me to put together a Spotify playlist or something let me know. 
> 
> I have this random headcanon that JJ is a K-Pop stan (his favorite group is Twice). 
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated <3


	26. Maybe It's Maybelline

_December 2025; London_

He’s fairly certain the very pretty woman sitting at his table doesn’t have pupils. It could be the odd colored lighting or the fantastically tasty drinks he keeps having. Every time she smiles, exposing needle sharp teeth, the human part of his hindbrain frantically waves two giant red flags screeching, _Danger! Danger Wil Robinson! Abort!_

“I think I recognize this song,” he says.

Her head cocks to the side, pupil-less eyes boring into his face with unabashed interest, “Do you?”

_…don’t doubt me babe, you make me wanna change…_

_…break my bed, don’t make me wanna stay, I can’t…_

He absently hums along to the music, suddenly feeling like he’s on a boat when the beat drops – oh. When did he start swaying?

The miniscule part of him that’s still sober reminds him that he shouldn’t move so much while sitting on such a tall chair. Still, he’s caught in the push and pull of the crowd matching the beat and the lights blur together into a muddy kaleidoscope –

“Would you like another?” a pretty waiter carrying a tray laden with glasses of the tasty liquor pauses by their table and he offers it directly to Otabek despite the unfinished drink still sitting in front of him. He hesitates because it is good stuff, his tongue already craves more of the tingly sweetness, but the waiter is ignoring the nice lady –

A voice answers for him, “Maybe some other time.” The waiter immediately pulls the tray away, giving the stranger behind Otabek a hard look before sauntering away.

Otabek cranes his neck trying to see who scared off the waiter before he could tell him off for his poor manners but finds himself being pulled gracelessly off his chair. “Thank you for looking after my friend.”

Wait.

That _can’t_ be Yuri’s voice.

Otabek gets a brief glimpse of the woman giving totally-not-Yuri a tight smile before he’s led through the swaying crowd on the dance floor and out of the club. The cool night air feels amazing on his liquor-flushed skin and he breathes it in -

“What the actual fuck, Altin?” maybe-not-Yuri rounds on him, “Going to a fucking faerie club by yourself? Are you fucking _insane?_”

He stares at the Warlock, blinking once then too many times, enough that probably-Yuri is giving him a look like he suspects Otabek’s on drugs.

“Are you real?” Otabek asked and maybe-it’s-actually-Yuri rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t pop out of his head. The Warlock looks exceptionally exasperated and just as beautiful as Otabek remembers (even if it is all in his head); hair gathered in a loose fishtail braid over his shoulder, baring a long silvery earring dangling from his left lobe. The green of his kohl-lined eyes is especially striking.

There’s no fucking way he’s real. Those drinks probably had some kind of hallucinogen in it somehow.

Otabek reaches out a tentative finger to test that theory and it meets the solid resistance of Yuri’s chest through the gaps of his fishnet top, “Holy shit.”

“Just how much have you had?” Yuri demanded.

“Uh…four? No, five. No wait…” Otabek silently counted on his blurry fingers.

“It’s a fucking miracle you can even speak English right now,” Yuri said.

Otabek pauses, “I’m speaking English?”

“Fuck it. Let’s go.” Yuri steers him into a more covert spot and it takes a moment for Otabek’s liquor-soaked brain to realize that it’s cold outside and fishnet wasn’t exactly made for wintertime.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No,” Yuri scoffed.

“Right,” Otabek nods sagely, “You’ve got the magic stuff.”

Still, the horny part of his hindbrain (which is now…all of it) starts making its own suggestions on ways to keep warm while doing suggestive body rolls. It’s taking every single functioning brain cell in his frontal lobe to focus on the look Yuri’s giving him right now; like he’s torn between laughing and smacking the shit out of him.

“This would be hilarious if I wasn’t pissed,” Yuri says.

They’re suddenly standing in an unfamiliar apartment. Otabek blinks to get his eyes to focus on his new surroundings.

“Your couch is blue,” Otabek points out.

“Yes. I know.”

“I like it,” Otabek announced.

“Good. Sit and don’t touch anything. If you need to vomit,” Yuri snaps his fingers and the trash can appears next to the couch, “there’s the bin.”

Otabek sits obediently, earning an eyeroll. The couch cushions are impossibly soft and when Yuri stalks off, Otabek buries his face in them to test just how soft they are –

His breath is suspiciously damp, and he realizes its because most of his face is buried in a throw pillow. A beam of sunlight from the open blinds hits him square across the eyes, making him grimace. Of all the days for London to be sunny…

“Shit,” he mutters. Sitting up makes his head throb even more and he squints at his surroundings, his brain blanking on exactly how he got here.

_Fuck, did I go home with a stranger? _

Awfully nice of them, whoever they are, to let his wasted ass crash on the couch. And he still has his clothes on which is a good sign.

There’s a large flatscreen TV mounted on the wall with a gaming system on the floor below it. He scoots across the couch to get a better look at the framed photos, swallowing his surprise when he recognizes Yuri – much much younger, smaller, and impossibly blonder – with a woman that shares his coloring and a man with auburn hair. _His parents,_ Otabek realizes. The same couple is featured in an old wedding photo to the left, clearly candid by the way they've been caught mid-laugh. Movement in his periphery makes him twitch and he freezes when he makes eye contact with the biggest housecat he’s ever seen. Eerily intelligent yellow eyes stare at him from within a cloud of black and grey fur. The cat is somehow giving him a knowing look and Otabek feels inexplicably guilty.

He hears the low clink of dishes and the running of the faucet just as his alcohol-soaked memories of the previous night make him burn with embarrassment.

He waits for his body to spontaneously combust or for the couch to swallow him or something. Anything. If he has to face Yuri in his club-stained clothes with faerie glitter still in his hair he’ll never be able to live it down.

Nothing happens and, resigned to his fate, he staggers off the couch and into the kitchen to apologize for being such a nuisance and get it over with. Yuri’s cracking eggs into a frying pan with his hair tied back in a loose ponytail. The cable knit sweater he’s wearing is slightly too large for his willowy frame and makes him look incredibly soft in stark contrast to the fishnet-and-denim vision Yuri struck last night.

The hopeless crush he’s spent the past eight months trying to squash comes screaming to the forefront to punch him straight in the chest. He swallows hard and has to remind himself that he can do this. He can have a totally normal conversation like they’re two totally regular people (even if one of them is a Warlock and the other is a chimera…thing).

“Finally awake, are you?” Yuri doesn’t look up from where he’s currently mashing an avocado. Otabek startles, realizing that he’d just been caught standing there and staring like a creep without saying anything.

“I, um, yeah,” Otabek scratches his neck, “I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble.”

“The next time you’re invited inside a faerie club and you’re by yourself, take my advice and walk the other way. I don’t give a shit how good the booze is.”

“In my defense, I didn’t know it was a faerie club until later,” Otabek said. After that first drink, he’d caught a glimpse of gossamer wings and knew that he’d kind of fucked up by letting himself get sweet talked by the pretty boy handing out fliers. After the second and third, it was too easy just to let the wool be pulled over his eyes.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Yuri rolled his eyes, “You want coffee?”

_Yes_.

“Just tea, if you have it.” He doesn’t deserve coffee after imposing Drunk Otabek on a friend that he hasn’t seen in a year.

“I live in England. _Of course_, I have tea.”

Otabek feels soft fur brush against his ankles and he looks down, already expecting to see the giant housecat from before, “Oh. Hello.”

“I see you’ve met Hades,” Yuri said, giving the cat an exasperated look, “Oi. You _just_ ate.” Hades gives Yuri an imperious look as if to say, ‘so?’.

“He’s lovely,” Otabek reached down to pet him. Hades eyes him suspiciously for a moment before appearing to allow it, yellow eyes squinting in contentment.

“He’s a pain,” Yuri replied fondly. He paused in the middle of turning to pick up the kettle, “How do you not have the hangover from hell right now?”

“Make no mistake,” Otabek answered seriously, straightening, “I feel like absolute shit.” There’s aching pressure behind his eyes, all of his joints hurt, and he’s got an awful case of cottonmouth. Yuri snorts a laugh, clearly anti-sympathetic, and pours hot water into a waiting mug for him.

Yuri plates up breakfast for them both and sitting at the tiny kitchen table makes Otabek even more aware of the fast that he slept in his clothes from last night and still faintly reeks of the faerie club. He’s sure that if he shakes out his pockets that there’ll be glitter in them. His phone is completely dead, and he really wants to brush his teeth. But at least he has his wallet.

“Thanks,” Otabek said, “for, um, for this and for letting me crash here.”

“You were so wasted you thought I was a figment of your imagination,” Yuri said flatly and Otabek cringes at the reminder.

“I didn’t even realize how potent the drinks were,” Otabek mumbled, it had been so sweet, and it didn’t burn on the way down like mundane liquor, “Um, thanks, for intervening.”

“Worse that would’ve happened is you would’ve been tricked into eternal servitude,” Yuri replied, sarcastically blasé as he lifts his mug to his lips, “No biggie.”

“I thought that was fairy tale stuff,” he frowned.

Yuri lets out a loud snort, “Don’t you know by now? All the stories are based in some truth.”

He faintly remembers the waiter and being offered another drink… “If you’d accepted,” Yuri informed him grimly, “you would’ve paid with your life. _Nothing_ in that club was free.”

Good thing he’d paid for all his drinks in cash then.

_Out of the frying pan and into the fire_, he thinks wryly. Maybe he should’ve stayed and suffered through the rest of the banquet after the suffocating press conference following the exhibition.

They finish breakfast in silence, and it becomes glaringly obvious that Otabek…doesn’t have a way to get back to his hotel unless Yuri gives him a proverbial lift. What little cash he has on him won’t pay for a cab, and because he’s The Actual Worst his debit card is on the bedside table back at the hotel where he’d left it after ordering room service for dinner.

“You owe me for this,” Yuri says seriously, opening a Portal to the Waldorf.

“I’ll buy you lunch later,” Otabek promises. Yuri’s eyes narrow like he’s considering it and Otabek, before he nods.

“Deal.”

He breathes a heavy heavy sigh when he’s alone in his hotel room.

There’s a very small part of him that wants to move his flight up and take a raincheck on that lunch, and it’s drowned out by the larger part of him that refuses to leave without seeing Yuri (and maybe getting his phone number).

He plugs his phone in and takes a much-needed shower. The clothes he slept in are shoved into a plastic convenience store bag and stashed in the corner of his suitcase to be washed as soon as he gets back to Toronto tomorrow night.

It’s so nice to brush his teeth and scrub all the faerie germs away. His headache is more manageable now that he’s had breakfast and a shower. After he powers on his phone the notifications come flooding in – Google Alerts, Twitter, and Instagram. JJ’s tagged him in a post on Instagram featuring the two of them fresh off the podium and wearing their medals proudly.

**officialkingjj @otabekaltin** another great year. I’ll definitely be at the top in the next.

He double taps and opens up Twitter where JJ’s also tagged him in another post. This time, it’s a photo of the two of them at practice yesterday, sweaty and wrung out but JJ’s got a toothy smile directed at the camera while Otabek drinks from his Hydroflask in the background, captioned: “Hard work makes the dream work. #JJStyle #alsoOtabekstyle”. Otabek lets out a loud snort.

He sits on the bed in his towel, continuing to scroll through his feed and sees all the excitement happening on the timeline. There are gifs circulating already from his free and short programs along with the press photos and cringy clips from interviews.

In the group chat he shares with his sisters there are already screenshots of the dumb facial expressions he’d made last night with memey captions like, ‘It was in this moment that he knew…he fucked up’ and ‘Ma’am this is a Wendy’s’.

Hana, Zhu-Zhu   
  
You’re both terrible.   
  
Zhu, how do you even know what a Wendy’s is??   
  
Zhu-Zhu   
Of course, I know what Wendy’s is. I live on the internet, Bekem.

His argument with his younger sister is interrupted by a text from an unfamiliar number with a UK code.

+44xxxxxxxx   
  
Where are you taking me for lunch, loser?

Otabek briefly panics because he’s been so busy arguing about stupid internet memes that he’d totally forgotten to look up a restaurant. His thumbs have never moved faster, scrambling to look up a place with decent ratings and reviews. He plays it safe and suggests an Italian restaurant, and Yuri seems agreeable. 

They’re meeting in an hour and Otabek is still lounging in his towel.

The open suitcase on his floor doesn’t have much in the way of particularly fashionable options. He can’t exactly wear his best suit to what’s supposed to be a casual lunch.

_It’s just Yuri_, he reminds himself when he stands there paralyzed by indecision for twenty minutes, _It’s not even a date! _

It doesn’t help.

He puts on the last clean outfit he has that isn’t lululemon or sweatpants: jeans, button-down, and a pullover against the soggy winter chill. He smooths the collar down over the neck of the pullover and sighs.

It’ll have to do.

Yuri is already waiting outside the restaurant when Otabek arrives, leaning up against the wall with one of his long legs bent and his phone in his hands, clearly texting or playing a game of some sort. He looks up when Otabek approaches, pocketing aforementioned phone.

“’Sup, loser?”

“Winner actually,” Otabek corrected and Yuri snorts.

“I see you’ve grown some humility in the last year.”

“I try.”

The restaurant is quiet, and they’re seated in the back where there aren’t many other patrons, next to a window facing the busy street. Yuri sweeps his hair up into a high ponytail with the elastic around his wrist while reading the menu.

“Your hair’s shorter,” Otabek notices.

“Funny you would say that,” Yuri said, “I can never seem to find the time to get it cut again.” 

“You look good,” Otabek told him. He’s gained back all of the weight he’d lost in the hospital. He’s got some new scars too – a small one on his upper lip and a slightly larger one that interrupts his left eyebrow. Otabek’s gut twists, realizing that someone had been aiming for Yuri’s eye and missed.

“I try,” Yuri parroted and Otabek chortled.

The server introduces himself and takes their drink order before leaving them alone to peruse the menu.

“I, um, tried to call you,” Otabek blurted, despite his brain furiously telling his mouth to stop, “to see how you were doing. But your number was disconnected.”

“I had to get a new phone,” Yuri explained, “since my old one got busted. I tried to keep my number but the bloke at the store was like,” Yuri affects a deeper pitch, “’If you tell me what it was, I can assign it to you’. Of course, I don’t fucking remember it! ‘Cause it was _in my old phone!_ The fucking idiot.” Otabek purses his lips so he doesn’t laugh. “Anyway, I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking.”

“And, um…what happened with the…?”

“Case?” Yuri finished, “It was postponed ‘cause our entire government was under investigation. You know. Fun stuff.” Otabek winced. “The nutjob’s been sentenced already. He’s obviously too dangerous to let him roam free. Our favorite CEO’s fighting tooth and nail to get off, but she’s got a long list of stuff to answer for.” Yuri starts counting the charges off on his fingers: embezzlement, fraud, illegal solicitation of para-military personnel, soliciting a murder, eighteen counts of kidnap-murder, three counts of manslaughter, kidnapping and assault of law enforcement personnel (“That’s me, by the way,” Yuri waved), two counts of kidnapping and assault (“One of those was you, obviously.”), and twenty-one class six GAP violations.

Otabek stares wide-eyed, “That was a mouthful.”

“I didn’t even include the shadow protocol violations or the conspiracy charges,” Yuri said, “Long story short, she’s not getting out anytime soon.”

“What about bail?” Otabek asked.

“No such thing in magical law,” Yuri answered, “She’ll be held in remand until a verdict has been reached.”

Otabek doesn’t comment on how she’ll probably be in remand forever with a list that long. 

“Anyway, I heard you’re back in the competition circuit. Something about the Olympics?” Yuri lifts his glass to his lips.

“Been following the blogs?” Otabek asked.

“Ha! No. I actually have a life, thank you very much.” Ouch. “Danny’s a fan of yours now. Been following your events. Between her and my friend’s nieces, I can’t get away from the figure skating stuff.”

Otabek shifts in his seat, a bit embarrassed, “You’re just fucking with me.”

“Pinkie swear!” Yuri promised, “Cross my heart and hope to fart. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to listen to rants about scoring and who was robbed and how crap someone’s costume choices are in the last five months.” he pauses and holds up a finger before rummaging for his phone, “Danny even found this gem.” Yuri holds up his screen and Otabek cringes at the old photo of thirteen-year-old Beethoven-obsessed Otabek Altin in a bedazzled powder blue Rococo inspired costume.

“Oh God,” Otabek groaned, covering his eyes, “_Please_ delete that.”

“Inquiring minds wanna know who thought it was a good idea for you to wear a cravat,” Yuri said.

“I was thirteen, okay?” Otabek whined, “Leave me alone.”

In his defense, the designer his then coach had hired was a total enabler and deserved eighty percent of the blame. The press photos from that year will crop up once in a while to haunt him and he likes to think that he’s grown in leaps and bounds since then.

“How long are you in London for?” Yuri asked.

“Until tomorrow morning,” Otabek said, “I thought I’d give myself an extra day and finally see the sights but…”

He’d spent most of this morning hungover and he’s still got to make sure all of his stuff is packed and ready before his flight in the morning. 

“You can’t not do all the touristy bullshit,” Yuri protested. Otabek shrugged a shoulder.

“I’ve always been too busy before,” he said.

He should be going back to Toronto tonight. Four Continents, Olympics, and Worlds are practically on top of each other and he won’t be spending the holidays eating himself into a coma, no matter how much JJ begs.

“We’re rectifying this,” Yuri declared, “Right after I eat.”

Otabek stares, “Who said you were invited?”

“Someone has to make sure you don’t wander into trouble,” Yuri scowled, pointing at him with a fork, “Knowing you, you’ll get eaten or some shit as soon as I turn my back and I can’t have that on my conscience now can I? Such bullshit…” the Warlock angrily cuts his meat and forks a bite into his mouth.

Otabek isn’t entirely sure whether he should be offended or not at being called helpless. He pays for lunch – as promised – and he’s dragged across London to King’s Cross station. 

“Why are we here?” he asked.

Yuri points to the Platform 9 ¾ where there’s a queue of people taking photos, “Go get your picture taken like a nerd, _nerd_.”

_This is totally revenge for all the times I called him a wizard_, he thinks, sandwiched in line between two excitable thirteen-year-olds bedecked in their Harry Potter merchandise. When he glances over to where Yuri’s patiently waiting for him, the Warlock has somehow – in the last two minutes – gone to get popcorn. There’s a smug smile on his face as he wiggles his fingers in a saucy wave at Otabek before shoveling more popcorn into his mouth.

_He’s such a shit_.

Otabek gets his picture taken by the man dressed as a Hogwarts Express conductor.

“Where are we going next?” he asked Yuri.

“Why are you asking me?” Yuri snorted around a mouthful of popcorn.

“You live here,” Otabek shrugged.

“I see how it is,” Yuri narrowed his eyes, “Make me do all the work.”

They take the train to Westminster to see Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Across the bridge, the London Eye slowly carries passengers to the tippy top to give tourists a bird’s eye view of downtown. While Otabek snaps photos of the giant iconic clock for Instagram, Yuri is furiously typing on his phone.

“There!” he declared.

“What?” Otabek lowers his phone.

“Booked tickets for the London Eye,” Yuri said and Otabek stares. “What?” Yuri snapped, suddenly defensive, “I’ve never been.”

Standing on Westminster Bridge waiting for their time to queue, Otabek is totally confused by the Viking cosplayers out on the turbulent river.

“We get complaints about them all the time,” Yuri said.

“From who?” Otabek frowned. They don’t look like they’re causing any trouble. Yuri shrugs a shoulder.

“Bridge trolls,” he said. Otabek paused, trying to decipher if Yuri’s actually fucking with him this time.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“Fucking stupid, I know,” Yuri rolled his eyes, “They’re just mundanes living their best life. Like, what can we do about it?”

The sun is already starting to get by the time they queue up for their flight. They’re the last in line, lagging behind the other tourists and by the time they reach the front there’s only one pod left, and they get it all to themselves.

Yuri stretches as the Eye begins its flight with a satisfied little, “Ah. This is nice.”

Otabek agrees. The pod is large enough for a party of maybe ten people and it’s just the two of them, making the slow ascent to the top. The last of the sunshine fades, giving way to the purple black of evening and London lights up below. He snaps one or two photos to post later (his sisters would give him shit otherwise) and enjoys the companionable silence. He glances aside at Yuri who looks oddly at peace as he looks down at the city he helps protect. The city lights are reflected in the fierce green of Yuri’s eyes like flecks of glitter and Otabek looks away a little too late just as Yuri looks up.

“What is it?” Yuri asked.

“Nothing,” Otabek answered quickly, “It’s fine.”

Yuri sighs, “There you go with the Kermit face again.”

“Kermit fa– seriously?” Otabek spluttered.

“If you’ve got something to say then say it –“

“I really want to kiss you,” Otabek blurted before his brain can mediate properly.

Yuri stares in complete surprise and Otabek silently starts to panic. Should he take the leap? Backtrack and apologize?

“Well,” Yuri said slowly, “didn’t see that one coming. I was expecting another question.”

“My question is, um,” Otabek takes a deep breath before he loses his nerve, “Can I?”

He half expects Yuri to say ‘no’, but then the Warlock is leaning in and _holy shit this is actually happening_. He didn’t expect for Yuri’s kiss to be full of tingling static, like he’d just stuck a fork in a light socket. Yuri lets out a little sigh against him and Otabek reaches up to slide a gentle hand along the Warlock’s jaw. Yuri tastes like a sea salt and sugar and ozone and Otabek’s tongue is tingling. It’s literally electric and he’s immediately greedy for more.

“I like you,” Otabek murmurs, drawing away before he can act on his first impulse and end up ruining things because he got too greedy too fast. “Probably too much,” he adds.

Yuri huffs a soft laugh and Otabek can feel it against his still-tingling lips, “I guess I like you too.”

“You guess?” Otabek murmurs, his lips barely brushing Yuri’s. The Exorcist closes what little distance is between their mouths with a low chortle and it’s Otabek’s turn to sigh. His thumb sweeps gently over Yuri’s cheek as the kiss slowly deepens.

Yuri’s the first to draw away this time, running his tongue over his top lip like he’s catching Otabek’s taste and Otabek – like a mad idiot dog – watches it. He can literally feel his eyeballs move in his sockets and Yuri’s mouth curls in a shitty knowing smirk.

“You know,” the Exorcist says casually, voice low in the silence of the pod, “I always thought you were a repressed rich boy.”

“Rich boy?” Otabek repeated indignantly.

“But you’re a kinky fuck, aren’t you?” Yuri says, like Otabek hasn’t spoken. And fuck. _Fuck_. He’s so weak to that half-lidded look coupled with that shitty smirk. He doesn’t remember leaning forward to close the distance for the third time, but the way Yuri’s teeth scrape his bottom lip will be burned into his brain for all time. All the necessary blood he needs for his frontal cortex to function rushes south. He licks into Yuri’s mouth, satisfied when he feels the Warlock shiver against him. His hand slides into Yuri’s hair while the other grips his hip, holding him close.

“Mmm,” Yuri moans against him.

His heart feels like it’s going to beat straight out of his chest. He’s overheating underneath all his layers, hot arousal pooling in his lower belly. The kiss breaks with a low smack, just in time as the London Eye is making its descent.

“Stay with me,” Otabek sighed, resting his forehead against Yuri’s, “Please stay.”

“Okay,” Yuri breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drink responsibly kids (even if doing otherwise sorta gets you a hot Warlock boyfriend). #totallynotadate #butitkindaistho
> 
> I have no idea if those cosplayers are still around. I saw them exactly once during a trip to London for some stupid tourist excursion and I haven't been back since. (I assume they're not doing the whole 'go on the river in cosplay' thing since, y'know, COVID...). During the winter in the UK the sun sets unreasonably early (like, at 3/4pm). 
> 
> I made a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1gpJ4HNZr79DzhDD1Ozm8P?si=2vPj_fvSR42HaYt9RY79MQ) for Otabek's set in the last chapter if anybody's interested in what it might've sounded like (_please_ let me know if the link doesn't work.)
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, stay hydrated <3
> 
> Song credits: Say It (ft. Tove Lo) - Flume


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